


L’emblème de L’éternité

by Siavahda



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: (secondary character and literally for a few seconds), Alternate Canon, Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, BAMF Nick, BAMF Sean Renard, Birthmarks, Biting, Blood Magic, Bonding, Breeding, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Claiming, Claiming Bites, Cunnilingus, F/M, Light Bondage, M/M, Magic, Marking, Mates, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensually Induced Rut, Non-Ship Threat of Rape/Non-Con, Oral Sex, Rimming, Sensation Play, Sex Magic, Sexual Fantasy, Sumerian Mythology - Freeform, Temporary Character Death, The Royals are Wesen, Vaginal Sex, Wesen Politics, Wings, Worldbuilding, magical conception
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-06-28 17:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19817224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siavahda/pseuds/Siavahda
Summary: When Nick was six years old, his parents were murdered, and their killers picked him up from school. They put a collar around his neck and tried to take him to Vienna, to someone called Prince Eric. He was rescued by a man who walked like a king and burned like the sun, but they made him forget it all when they brought him to Aunt Marie.When his powers awaken, he starts to remember. And when he’s given the chance to save the man who once saved him, he’ll take it - even if it means risking the L’emblème de L’éternité, the mating bite that will bind them together forever.Or: There’s a Prince in the West, and a Key in his canton, and anyone who comes for either will have to deal with both.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crazywriterperson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazywriterperson/gifts).



> Yeah, yeah, I’m late to the sandbox. What else is new? I hope there are still enough fans around to enjoy this, though! And for those who are not fans (or who are but just don’t have a photographic memory) I’ve embedded links to the Grimm FanWiki whenever a term from the show comes up. (Only the first time it comes up, though.) I have made many edits to the canon worldbuilding, so bear in mind that my Verrat may not look exactly like the one in the show, etc, but the links should give non-fans an idea of what I’m talking about and give Grimm-fans a quick refresher where needed. Terms that are _not_ from canon, and are also not explained in the footnotes, will be explained over the course of the fic: if you don’t know what it means, you’re not supposed to yet! 
> 
> Also, despite the implication of the tags, there’s a fair bit of plot to get through before we reach the smut. Sorry.
> 
> Fic title comes from the quote by Madame de Staël: _“L’amour est l’emblème de l’éternité, il confond toute la notion de temps, efface toute la mémoire d’un commencement, toute la crainte d’une extrémité.”_
> 
> Or, in English: _“Love is the emblem of eternity; it confounds all notion of time, effaces all memory of a beginning, all fear of an end.”_
> 
> Finally: this entirely un-beta-ed mess is dedicated to **crazywriterperson** , because he has been far too indulgent with my madness. Hope you enjoy the ride, babs!

If you went to a [wesen](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Wesen) bar, almost anywhere in the continental US, you would eventually hear stories about Keys.

It might take you a while—you might have to buy quite a few drinks—but sit and jaw for long enough and the conversation would inevitably turn that way. Everyone knew someone who knew someone whose ancestor’s best friend’s second son had been killed by a Key, or had lived in the canton of a Royal who owned one, back in the Old Country, centuries before the last Keys were lost. Everybody had a story, and get enough drinks in ’em and even a [Scharfblicke](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Scharfblicke) would eventually start talking.

But go back night after night—make yourself popular by grabbing rounds and covering tabs—and sooner or later you could turn the conversation to the American Key.

It was in Louisiana. Or Vermont. Or Illinois. A [Willahara](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Willahara)’s third cousin’s sister-in-law’s ex-girlfriend had sworn the [Verrat](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Verrat) were sniffing around for it in Florida, or maybe Arkansas, or had it been Michigan? It had been found and claimed years ago by the eldest of the South American Princes; it had been smuggled out of the country to Greenland; the Russian Royals had almost had it in Wisconsin, but it slipped through their fingers and vanished again. Its guardian had taken down a whole squad of [Reapers](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Reapers) in Oklahoma, or it was being traded back and forth between different Grimms, or it had fallen into the hands of [Kehrseite](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Human) who had no clue what they had.

It didn’t exist, or it definitely did, or it was probably just an urban legend because really, who had ever heard of a Key outside of a Royal’s hoard?

You could go just about anywhere and hear as many stories as you pleased.

Just about anywhere.

Except Washington. Or Oregon. Or California. Visitors who tried bringing up Keys in Sacramento, or Salem, or Seattle only ever received shrugs and deflections, subject-changes in various shades of polite. Even a [Excandesco](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Excandesco) in Los Angeles found the atmosphere chilly, if they kept pushing; the most charming [Ziegevolk](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Ziegevolk) in the world saw the smiles of their new-found drinking buddies turn false as botox if they didn’t take the hint and drop it. Last call came early up and down the West Coast when some stranger kept asking questions; or else their card was suddenly being rejected, and did they have any cash, and maybe it would be best if they went back to their hotel for the night, hmm?

If they kicked up too much of a fuss, they sometimes found a [Hexenbiest](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Hexenbiest_%26_Zauberbiest) waiting back at their rooms, ready with a [zaubertrank](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Category:Zaubertrank) to blur their memories of their night and leave them with the irresistible urge to head home in the morning.

If they woke up at all.

Because there _is_ a Key, and it _has_ been claimed. It belongs to the Prince in the West, and his people keep it secret while he keeps it safe, and anyone who comes hunting for it had better be ready for a war.


	2. Angel-Dragon, Dragon-Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Runed fans should not consider anything about the L’emblème!Anunnaki as relevant to Runed.** I used some of the same myths as inspiration for both, but the Anunnaki here are _not_ the same as the Runed ones.

When Nick was six, his parents died in a car crash.

He wasn’t in the car. He was at school, hugging his green-and-purple backpack to his chest while his first-grade teacher Miss Davis paced in her patent leather shoes, occasionally shooting him anxious little glances when she wasn’t watching the clock.

It was almost two hours past the time someone should have come to pick him up.

That might have been the reason she was so quick to believe the woman who arrived—well-dressed and polished and apologising profusely—claiming to be a friend of his mother’s. A family emergency, she hinted. So terribly sorry. They were so grateful someone had stayed with Nicholas!

Miss Davis demurred, overawed by this stranger’s gentle, insistent charisma. It was no trouble. Nick was a good boy. She hoped everyone was all right?

Oh yes, everyone was fine. But Nick might not be in for a few days; Miss Davis shouldn’t worry if she didn’t see him tomorrow.

The woman held out a hand. _Nicholas? I’ll take you home now_.

She had a tattoo on her palm. Crossed swords. Her hand was angled so Miss Davis couldn’t see.

He was supposed to run away if he ever saw that symbol. But his parents had also said that anyone with that tattoo would happily kill anyone who got between them and Nick, and Nick didn’t want Miss Davis to die, so he took the woman’s hand and went with her.

There was a car waiting for them in the parking lot; a dark, sleek, thing, with three more strangers inside. They were dark, sleek things too, two men and a woman all in black from head to toe, with some kind of symbol on their jackets, right over their hearts.

“Who are you?” Nick asked. His parents and Aunt Marie had told him that people with the sword tattoo were bad, but not who they _were_. “Are you supervillains?”

The driver—an enormous hulk of a man with his dark hair cropped short—snorted with amusement.

The woman who’d come for him—the only one not wearing black—turned around to smile at him from the passenger seat. “Of course not, Nicholas! We’re your guardians. We’re here to make sure you get home safe and sound.”

Nick shook his head. “We just passed my street,” he pointed out. He’d seen the sign through his window as they drove past it.

“Your _real_ home, Nicholas. In Vienna.” The woman’s smile widened. “Have you ever been on a plane?”

“No…”

“You’ll like it,” she promised. “His Highness has his own private jet waiting for you! It’s like a castle in the sky.”

Nick chewed his lip. “Will my mom and dad be there?”

The woman turned back around in her seat. “Sure, sweetie. They’ll be joining us later.”

She was lying. Nick didn’t know how he knew, but he did. He wanted to say so—to demand to know where his parents were—but he looked at the hard, dispassionate faces of the man and woman in the back seat with him, and said nothing. He just hugged his backpack even more tightly.

They drove very fast, and maybe Nick fell asleep for a bit, worn out by the strangeness and the fear, because it didn’t seem like very long before the car had stopped and someone was lifting Nick out of it.

“My bag!” he protested when it slipped out of his fingers, but nobody stopped for it.

“We’ll get you a new one,” the first woman said absently. Evening was falling, and there was a plane just like she’d said—a sleek, sharp thing, like a dagger made for slicing through the sky. A mobile stairway led up to the aircraft’s open door, and there were more people in black with the little picture on their jackets or shirts, and whenever Nick caught a glimpse of someone’s palm he saw that same tattoo of crossed swords. Most of the people he could see seemed tense. “Get him inside. Willem, Berack, Castheia, do a sweep. I could almost have sworn—”

The plane’s turbines began to spin as Nick was carried up the steps, drowning out her words, and Nick’s stomach churned. The sick feeling only grew when he saw the inside of the jet, because it didn’t look like the ones he’d seen on tv, with lots of chairs filled with lots of people. This plane looked more like a fancy house, the kind where you took your shoes off at the door so you didn’t stain the carpet, but the man carrying him didn’t take his shoes off. He just walked in and put Nick down in a chair so big it was almost a sofa, thicker and softer than Nick’s bed at home, and Nick hugged his knees to his chest, scared that he would break or dirty anything he touched in here. Everything was shiny and polished, and the paintings on the walls looked like the ones he’d seen in the Metropolitan Art Museum the last time Aunt Marie came for a visit, and the main light came from one of those things made of lots of crystals, the one his dad said was called a _chandelier_.

It couldn’t have been more different from the small, cosy apartment he lived in with his mom and dad.

One of the people in black asked him if he wanted a drink, and he said no, thank you, because it was good to be polite. And then the blonde woman strode into the jet, the light from the chandelier shining on her hair and her pearl necklace. She had a square, flat box in her hands as she sat down opposite Nick.

“His Highness has a present for you, Nicholas,” she said, and her smile made Nick think of all the reasons his mom wouldn’t let him go trick-or-treating with the other kids and their parents; candy with razor blades in it, toffees with poison centers, chocolate bars full of needles. Awfulness covered up in sugar. “Would you like to see?”

Nick _didn’t_ want to see; he wanted to keep looking out the window, watching for his parents to appear. But he nodded, because it would have been rude not to.

The woman lifted the lid of the box reverently. Inside, lying on black velvet, was a circle of gold as thick as Nick’s finger. It had a medallion set into the front, big enough that the design on it was perfectly clear, the same one all these people had on their clothes: a savage-looking dragon coiled around a five-pointed star, the star itself engulfed in flame coming from the dragon’s snarling mouth.

It had been wrought with incredible skill, but it was brutish and violent in its symbolism, and Nick quailed back from it without knowing why. Maybe if it had been less well-made it wouldn’t have been so bad, but he could see the greed in the way the dragon’s claws clutched the star, and there was something sadistic about its expression. It was a dragon that _definitely_ needed slaying, but the self-satisfied curl of its tail said that many had tried, and all had failed.

Nick didn’t like it at all.

The woman did something deft with her sword-marked hand, and the circle opened along a hinge in the back. “See? It goes on like this.”

Either blind to or ignoring his dread, she leaned forward and closed the collar—because that was what it was, Nick realised belatedly—around his throat before he could protest.

It fastened with a soft _snick,_ cold as ice and cruel as shears.

Everything would now always be defined as _before_ or _after_. That was what the sound meant. His old life was over, neatly snipped away by a pair of gleaming golden scissors. The collar was supposed to be the start of something else, something Nick didn’t want, and panic built in his chest as the woman leaned back in her seat, looking supremely satisfied.

“You look lovely,” she told him. “Now everyone will know you’re under Prince Eric’s protection.”

Nick reached up with a trembling hand to curl his fingers around the collar. It wasn’t too tight—he could get his fingers under it easily—but he thought, _collars aren’t for things you protect. They’re for things you_ _ **own**_ _,_ and felt sick.

But you couldn’t own people. Could you?

He was still trying to figure that out when a _roar_ shattered the night into a million razor-edged shards; a roar like Heaven’s fury and Hell’s rage given voice, like the detonation that had birthed the universe and now would end it, like the fabric of reality stretched taut and struck like a drum by a god-king’s war-hammer. It shook the sky and the ground and the frame of the jet, reverberated in seismic gold waves through Nick’s body. He scrambled over to the window, and no one tried to stop him because no one _could:_ the woman with the pearl necklace crashed to her knees as if she’d been hurled from her chair, and the grown-ups who’d been standing dropped to the floor as if their legs had been cut out from under them, pressing themselves as low and small as they could, whimpering and hiding their heads under their arms. When Nick pressed his face to the window, he saw a dozen more people kneeling on the tarmac, wailing and cringing beneath that breathtaking sound like it was crushing them to the earth.

It could only have lasted a few seconds, but it felt like forever. And when the roar ended, but before Nick’s ears had stopped ringing with it, a new group arrived.

There were about ten of them, a mix of men and women with the bearing of soldiers—or warriors. They swept through the kneeling people, and before those on the ground could recover Nick saw long knives flash and guns swing to point at faces, guns that must have had silencers on them because when the bullets started firing, the sounds were too quick and quiet to draw help.

The screams, though—someone might have heard those. Only a few of the people in suits had time to open their mouths, but Nick heard them screaming and pleading and being cut off, one by one in rapid succession, and there was so much _blood,_ a few of the new arrivals didn’t bother with weapons at all and just tore out throats with their _bare hands,_ and they did all of it with such deft, dark grace that it looked like a dance, wild and raw and awful because it was somehow painfully lovely too.

And at their centre, like the eye of the storm, was a dark-haired man standing tall and untouchable as a god, beautiful and terrible. He glowed like a gem amidst dust, a steel sword surrounded by bronze daggers, a sun around which everything and everyone else revolved _—_

He looked up as if he could feel Nick’s eyes, and for a moment their gazes locked.

Nick’s heart pounded, but he couldn’t look away, confused and shaken by the whirlwind of feelings and impressions set off by meeting the man’s eyes, but pulled towards him as if by gravity. Nick desperately wanted to be in the safe, calm space that surrounded the tall stranger, the only refuge, it seemed, from—from _everything_. He was scary, but a different kind of scary from everything else; Nick couldn’t quite formulate the thought that he seemed safe _because_ he was scary, scary enough that no one and nothing would mess with him, or with anyone he chose to protect. He was like a lighthouse in a storm, and Nick just _knew,_ like he’d known the woman was lying before, that if he could somehow get to the man, he would be safe, safe for real—

Footsteps rattled on the metal staircase, but some of the plane’s occupants were staggering drunkenly to their feet, whatever the roar had done wearing off. The woman who’d put the collar on Nick threw off the effects faster than the rest; snarls and inhuman shrieks came from the plane door as the newcomers entered, but she snatched Nick up from his chair—with an ease that spoke of a strength that couldn’t possibly fit in her body—and hurried for the back of the jet.

“No!” Nick didn’t know where she was taking him, and a big part of him wanted to run away from the people who’d done the killing, but—but she’d put a _collar_ on him, and taken him away from Miss Davis and his parents _weren’t_ coming, and she had the sword tattoo, and safety lay in the _other_ direction, with the man who was both scary and sanctuary— “Let me go! Let me go!” Nick hit the woman, again and again, panicked past all reasoning as the grown-up just held him more tightly.

“Shut up—I mean, shush, _couronne 1_—”

“You heard the boy,” a cool, hard voice said, cutting like a flaming sword through the sounds of people dying. The newcomers and the people wearing the dragon-symbol had engaged. “Let him go. _< Now.>”_

That _now_ hit like a shockwave, like the backhanded blow of a god; a word that was also a lightning strike. The arms clutching Nick spasmed and released him, seemingly of their own accord; he fell to the floor and immediately scrambled backwards. Only as the newcomer stepped forward did Nick risk a glance at him, and his heart leapt into his throat: it was the man from outside, the one he’d seen through the window, and he looked like an avenging angel as he approached the woman who’d taken Nick, a cold and terrible wrath radiating from him like light from a star. Nick hardly dared to breathe.

“Your Highness, _please.”_ Nick had never heard an adult—never heard anyone—sound like that, and he wished he hadn’t now: it made him feel cold and sick inside. “I beg you—mercy—”

“Denied.”

And suddenly the woman wasn’t alive any more.

The man lashed out with something that wasn’t his arm, something long and wide and wicked that scythed through the air almost too fast to see—and right through the woman with the pearls. Blood cut vicious crescents across the finely-wallpapered walls, and Nick gasped too hard to scream as the woman came apart in two pieces, cut in half through her torso. The halves of her fell bonelessly to the floor, and the fountain of blood spilled and spread through the thick carpet.

There was a sound like heavy fabric rippling, and the long thing that had cut her in half retracted, folding like an intricate fan until it abruptly vanished. Nick didn’t see where it went—did it fold away against the man’s back? through a slit in his clothes?—but it didn’t matter, he’d _seen_ it—

The man had a _wing_. A wing that cut through people like a _sword_.

The man turned to face him—and an enraged expression swept over his face. He stepped forward—and Nick scrabbled back, terrified; he hadn’t been scared of the man before, somehow, but he was scared now, the man had cut that woman in _half_ and now he was angry with Nick, Nick had no idea what he’d done but he didn’t want to be cut in half, he wanted to go _home,_ he wanted his _dad_ —

The man stopped, and the anger in his face went away. “No, little one, it’s all right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Slowly, as if afraid of spooking Nick, the man crouched down. The long tan coat he was wearing pooled around him a little, only just missing the blood in the carpet. “No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe now.”

Nick bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, fighting with everything in him not to burst into tears. He was shaking, though, and that was scary, because he didn’t know how to _stop_. “I’m sorry,” he blurted, hugging his arms around himself. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, whatever I did I won’t do it again, please don’t be mad, I’m _sorry_ —”

The man closed his eyes, and his face did something strange, so that for a second it looked like _he_ might cry, or else kill someone again—Nick wasn’t sure which. But after a beat the man looked at Nick again, and when he spoke his voice was even gentler than before. “You did nothing wrong,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t angry with _you,_ just—the people who took you.” He inhaled deeply. “Will you let me take the collar off you, little one?”

Nick nodded rapidly, sniffling. “Don’t like it,” he mumbled.

The man smiled a little. “Me neither.” He reached towards Nick, slowly. “Stay still for me, all right?”

Nick stayed very still, as still as he possibly could. He felt the man’s fingers touch the collar, and then—Nick couldn’t see what he did, but he heard a weird, very quiet sound a bit like cutting tinfoil, and then the man was using both his hands to pull the collar open and off Nick.

For a second Nick thought the man had claws at the tips of his fingers—claws sharp enough and strong enough to shear through gold like it was paper—but then he blinked, and the fingers were normal fingers again.

“There you go,” the man said softly.

Nick looked at him uncertainly. The sounds of fighting had died away, and he could smell blood and other horrible things, but the knots of fear in his tummy were loosening. For the first time, he got a proper look at the man up close: he was white, with hair black as Japanese calligraphy, and even crouched down he gave the impression of being taller than other men. Under his coat he wore an expensive-looking suit, with a tie and everything. His face was sculpted and regal, handsome as a knight in a story, or maybe a king—maybe a king who was also a knight.

And his eyes—his eyes were green, with rings of hazel-gold around the pupils like thousand-rayed stars. Like the ones in _Nick’s_ eyes.

That realisation distracted Nick from his fear; it seemed like as much of a marvel as a wing, that this man had the same stars in his eyes as Nick. “Your eyes are like mine.” When the man looked confused, Nick pointed at his own grey-blue eyes and made a circular gesture. “You have the stars. Around the black parts.”

The man smiled—for real this time, Nick thought. “I do,” he agreed. “I guess that means we should be friends.” He put the gold collar in the pocket of his coat, and held out his hand. “My name is Sean.”

He was a little too far away to reach, and Nick hesitated, but when Sean gave no sign of being impatient or angry he scooted a little closer, taking the man’s hand determinedly. “I’m Nick.” They shook with solemn gravitas, even though Sean’s hand completely swallowed Nick’s. It made Nick feel safe enough to ask, “Are we really going to be friends?”

“Of course,” Sean said. “I’m here to take you home, Nick. That’s what friends do, right?”

Nick bit his lip, uncertain. “I guess.” Without meaning to, he glanced in the direction of the pearl-woman’s corpse, and shuddered and looked away quickly. “What’s going on? Who were they?”

Sean followed his gaze, then looked back at Nick again. “They were bad people,” he said. His voice was as firm and gentle as his handshake had been. “They wanted to take you—somewhere that’s not very nice. But we stopped them. You don’t need to be scared any more, all right?”

Nick nodded. And took a deep breath. “Are you an angel?” he blurted.

The question clearly took Sean aback. “No,” he answered after a beat. “No, little one, I’m not.”

“But you have wings,” Nick said. “I saw.”

“I do,” Sean said slowly. Nick couldn’t read his expression anymore. “But that doesn’t make me an angel.”

Nick frowned, not convinced. Angels had wings, and they rescued people, and he’d seen pictures of them with swords—they were warriors, sometimes. If Sean was an angel, then the dead woman really _was_ bad, and Nick didn’t need to be sad and scared that she was dead. “Can I see?” he asked instead.

“See what?” Sean asked, puzzled.

“Your wings,” Nick explained patiently.

“I…” Sean looked confused, like he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here; like this conversation wasn’t going the way he’d expected. But Nick waited hopefully, and after a moment Sean nodded slowly. “All right. Sure.”

He placed one hand on the floor, bracing himself.

Nick couldn’t see Sean’s back from where he sat, so he still didn’t know how the wings got through the man’s coat. But he watched, everything else forgotten in a wave of delighted awe, as enormous dark pinions carefully unfolded from Sean’s back—and kept unfolding, spreading wider and wider, until they had to curve to fit inside the plane, because there wasn’t enough room for them to stretch out straight. They formed a shadowed cave around the man and the boy, enclosed and peaceful, and Nick knew without question that he was safe, safer than he’d ever been in his life.

“Wow,” he breathed, his head turning back and forth to drink in every detail. Sean’s wings looked black, but they shimmered with dark fire like black opals, or peacock feathers, if peacocks came in ebony; Nick saw glints of crimson, sapphire, emerald, bronze, and rich, royal purple. They had feathers like an angel’s wings but were shaped like a dragon’s, with wicked claws at the top, and at the bottom—the feathers at the bottom of each wing splintered the shadows, edged and gleaming like razors; at least until Sean flexed, a ripple running through each wing, and the sharp feathers turned soft and silky-looking as the rest. All together they were massive and beautiful and powerful, the wings of an angel-dragon, or a dragon-angel, and Nick decided then and there that he’d never root for the knight again.

From now on, he would always cheer for the dragon.

“They’re _so cool.”_

Sean smiled. “Thank you.” With slow, heavy care, his wings retracted, the sanctuary they’d made dissolving from around Nick. But they didn’t disappear inside Sean’s coat this time—they folded with a neat, intricate grace that belied their size, but remained draped against the man’s back as he held his hand out to Nick. “Now—are you ready to go home?”

Nick nodded quickly and let Sean pull him to his feet. When Sean stood, it was a little like being in the wing-cave again; he was so tall. He had to bend down a _lot_ to pick Nick up.

As he was lifted, Nick caught sight of the dead woman again, and even though she’d been a bad person, it still made him want to be sick, or cry, or both. He hid his face against Sean’s chest, shaking.

He heard the heavy rippling sound of moving wings, and felt feathers brush against the back of his neck as Sean wrapped his wings around him.

“It’s all right, _trésor, 2”_ Sean said softly. “I’ve got you. It’s all right. Just don’t look.”

Even without looking, Nick could _smell_ that there was blood and dead people on the plane, but he buried his face in Sean’s shirt anyway, holding onto him tightly. He didn’t want to see.

He just wanted to go home.

*

Cradling the young Grimm against his chest, Sean surreptitiously brushed the neck of the boy’s shirt down a little, just to confirm why Eric would have spent so many millions of euros, so much time, and the lives of so many of his people to kidnap a kid from Brooklyn. Why the European Prince would have risked the combined wrath of all the Seven Clans falling upon him like a guillotine, should they learn of his poaching outside his own canton; it would have meant his utter annihilation, his name struck from history and his great works torn down, his fiefdom burned to the ground, every trace of him wiped from the Earth, if even one Prince of the Blood caught a whisper of it. What could Eric possibly consider worth risking the Death of a Thousand Fangs, the sentence the Clans would hand down for breaking one of the Blood’s deepest taboos?

Only one thing.

And there it was, so small a Kehrseite would never have glanced twice at it: a tiny birthmark at the base of the boy’s neck, a freckle that would comfortably fit within a space half the size of Sean’s smallest fingernail. Only the sharpest of eyes would ever notice it as more than a random splotch.

Even fewer would recognise the eight-pointed Star of Ishtar.

Sean inhaled sharply, the only outward reaction he allowed himself. Even though there had been no other possible explanation for Eric’s actions, some part of Sean hadn’t really believed there truly was a Key. And now he held one in his arms.

A _ĝ_ _ešed_ _umun,_ in the old tongue. But there were other names, too: _sa_ _ĝ_ _men,_ which meant _crown._ The [Luison](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Luison) female he’d executed had called Nick the same thing, only in modern French; _couronne._

Because the truest name for those born with Ishtar’s Star was _nušarru:_ that which turns Princes into Kings.

Kingmaker. This child in his arms was a Kingmaker. No wonder Eric had done what he’d done; Sean was only surprised his older brother hadn’t sent an army.

He must have been trying to avoid calling attention to himself; subtlety over surety. Thank the Mother Sean’s people had gotten word of his plans despite it; Sean could think of only one or two other Princes in the world he would want to see made King as little as he did Eric.

He imagined what Eric would have done to this brave, curious little boy who’d called his wings—the deadly proof of his Blood, the sight of which drove the fiercest of wesen to abase themselves and beg for their lives— _cool;_ thought of what his brother would have done to Nick’s spirit, to that capacity for wonder and trust—and wrapped his wings a little tighter around the child.

Nick made a wordless sound, and snuggled into him a little more.

 _Snuggled._ As if Sean were a teddy bear, and not a Prince of the Blood. A guardian angel, rather than the scion of a race that were the most dangerous creatures to ever walk the earth.

Sean shook his head in bemusement. Hopefully the boy’s instincts would improve when his powers came in.

He carried Nick out of the plane to see that the clean-up crew had arrived. Catherine, the High Priestess of the Hexenbiest coven that had formed around him when he claimed his territory, stood to one side, overseeing the proceedings with cool precision, and Sean reined in his aura as he descended to the runway, ignoring the instincts that urged him to let his power and presence flood the night like a tidal wave, warning off anyone who might wish Nick harm: there was no one left to threaten the boy, and no need to make those loyal to him suffer the weight of a Prince’s _gloire_.

They noticed him anyway, of course. And more than one [woged](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Woge) at the wide-eyed sight of his wings—before quickly averting their gazes and returning to their tasks.

Someone had moved the cars that had carried them here up and onto the runway, and as Sean approached them Sebastien, one of his Dévoué, climbed out of one of the armoured jeeps. He, too, did a double-take at his Prince’s wings, but when he spoke it was pertinently. “You found him?”

Sean nodded, and Sebastien closed his eyes with relief. “Thank the Mother.” He made the sign of the cross—and then added another two strokes, turning it into an eight-pointed star: the same as the one Nick had been born marked with. “Unfortunately, my own news is not so good.”

With effort, Sean kept the edges of his wings from stiffening into steely blades. Whatever had gone wrong, they, not Eric, had Nick. That was the most important thing. _“~Let me put him down first,~”_ he said in French.

“ _~Of course.~”_ Sebastien got the door for him as he unwrapped his wings from around Nick.

“Nick?” Sean brushed his hand over the boy’s hair. “I need to put you down now, little one.”

“What?” Nick looked up at him in alarm. “Why?”

“I need to sort out a few things before we take you home,” Sean told him. “It won’t take long. You can wait in the car with my friend Sebastien.”

Nick shot Sebastien an uncertain glance, but one of Sebastien’s most valuable traits had always been how entirely unthreatening he appeared to be. “Okay,” Nick said, only a little dubiously.

Sean bent down to lower Nick into the car. The boy went without protest, fastening his seatbelt immediately, with great care—but when Sean started to straighten up and withdraw, Nick snatched at his hand in a sudden burst of panic. “You’re coming back, right? You promise?”

“I promise, _trésor,”_ Sean said gently. The fear in Nick’s eyes tugged at his heart. “I won’t go far—you’ll be able to see me the whole time. And I’ll be right back.”

He waited patiently as Nick struggled, wrestling with fears he’d probably never known until tonight. “Okay,” he said again, finally. He let go of Sean’s wrist, and let Sean carefully close the door on him.

“ _~Now, tell me,~”_ Sean ordered, turning to Sebastien.

The deceptively delicate-looking human sighed. _“~We were too late to save his parents,~”_ he said simply.

Sean absorbed that in silence, thinking. It had been his call that focused the bulk of his forces on recovering Nick, sending only those he could spare after the boy’s parents—and it had been the right one. He felt no guilt—the entire world would have suffered had Eric gotten his hands on a Key—but he did feel the sting of regret. _“~It is what it is,~”_ he said finally. _“~Who does that leave as the boy’s guardian?~”_

“ _~The mother’s sister,~”_ Sebastien told him. _“~But, sire—it’s Marie Kessler.~”_

Sean swore in the tongue of his ancestors, and wiped a hand over his face. _“~You’re telling me the only living relative the boy has left is a rabid, born-again[Endezeichen](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Endezeichen_Grimm)?~”_

Sebastien nodded wordlessly, and Sean cursed again, quietly but viciously. Maybe it _had_ been a mistake not to work harder to save the parents.

“ _~Sire,~”_ Sebastien said carefully, _“~no one could fault you if you decided to return directly to your canton with the Key.~”_

*

The inside of the car was very quiet, as if the glass of the windows was thicker than normal. Nick stroked his hand back and forth over the upholstery, trying to distract himself from the quiet. He could just barely hear the two men talking, but he didn’t think they were speaking in English. He didn’t know what the language was, but Sean was less than a foot away and Nick kept stealing glances on him, anxious to make sure he hadn’t disappeared. He hoped whatever the man had to do didn’t take long—

Sean had been standing with his back to the car, but now his head whipped around to face Sebastien and he _snarled,_ low and rumbling and soft, so deep it vibrated in Nick’s chest even through the car door. Something shifted, something Nick couldn’t see, but sensed clear as crystal; like a sword coming free of its sheath, like the sun emerging from behind the clouds that had hidden it, like a dragon flaring its wings wide enough to swallow the sky. Suddenly Sean seemed so much _bigger_ than he actually was, his presence expanding to fill the world like an ocean poured into a glass; he blazed without light, with power intangible as heat and fierce as a desert sun, invisible as air and just as vital, breathtaking. It was as if a god in disguise had suddenly dropped his human mask, so that even though nothing changed— _everything_ did, in a way Nick was too young to even try to put into words.

The heavy, majestic might of it swept over Nick in a dizzying rush—and flowed around him instead of through him, a river parting around stone. He _felt_ it, felt the weight and the roar and the glory, the _compulsion_ to kneel, to worship, to serve any way he could—but he didn’t drown in it. Wasn’t blinded by it.

He couldn’t look away from it.

But Sebastien dropped to one knee instantly, pressing a hand to his chest and bowing his head as if the sheer _immensity_ of that presence pushed him down towards the earth.

*

“ _~Sire, forgive me,~”_ Sebastien said. His voice trembled under the strain of Sean’s unleashed gloire, but in that moment Sean was too icily furious to care.

“ _~I am not my brother,~”_ he said, low and dangerous, feeling his incisors lengthen and throb with venom. _“~I do not_ _ **kidnap children,**_ _no matter how dangerous they may grow up to be. I will make Kessler the same offer I would have made her sister and brother-in-law, and she will take it, as they would have taken it. It’s unfortunate, but this changes_ _ **nothing**_ _.~”_

“ _~But if she refuses?~”_ Sebastien asked. _“~Will you let_ _ **Marie Kessler**_ _have the training of a Key? At least until some other Prince learns of him, and comes for him—~”_

Sean hissed, and Sebastien’s mouth snapped shut.

“ _~She will not refuse,~”_ Sean said, and his word was law. _“~Now get up, and get Kessler’s address to the drivers. I want to be on the road within the hour.~”_

“ _~Yes, my lord,~”_ Sebastien murmured, but Sean was already turning and striding away.

Most of the bodies had been disappeared by the time he reached Catherine, and Sean didn’t ask where they’d gone. He had a more important question. “The zaubertrank for the boy?”

Raising one sculpted eyebrow, the blonde Hexenbiest withdrew a slender vial full of a dark potion from her purse. “It wasn’t broken in the scuffle, if that’s what you mean.” She proffered it to him.

Sean took it and slipped it inside his coat. “Good.”

“I still don’t see the point of taking away his memories,” Catherine said. “It will wear off when he comes into his powers. There’s not a Hexenbiest alive or dead who can brew magic strong enough to overcome a Key’s resistance.”

 _Then he won’t have nightmares until he’s old enough to deal with them,_ Sean thought, and didn’t bother trying to explain. He would only sound weak if he tried. “You don’t need to see the point,” he said aloud. “Your task is to do as I command, Priestess.”

“And haven’t I done it?” Both Catherine’s eyebrows rose now. “I’m not questioning you, my lord. Only reminding you of an old witch’s limitations.”

“As if I could forget anything about you,” Sean purred, double-edged and sweetly venomous. The High Priestess laughed, delighted.

“Keep your flirting to yourself, Prince. My daughter has her eye on you, and I’ve trained her well. I’ll find a dagger in my heart if I get in her way.”

Sean tilted his head, intrigued despite everything. “A successor you consider worthy? She must be impressive indeed, to meet your standards.”

Catherine shrugged, a graceful pretence at modesty. “I think she’s more concerned with meeting yours.”

“She’ll have her chance.” Sean looked around, searching for any detail he or his people might have missed, but there were none. Smoke was coming from the plane’s open door as the inside burned, destroying every trace of unhuman DNA and everything else the Kehrseite shouldn’t get their hands on. Explaining the jet’s presence Sean left to his brother; let Eric be the one to bribe the human authorities into misplacing their curiosity. Sean had better uses for his own funds.

Eric would know that someone, somewhere, knew what he’d attempted to do; what he’d _dared_ to do. He would guess it was Sean, of course—that was unavoidable, given the scarcity of Princes on American soil—but there would be no proof. Perhaps it would make him circumspect for a decade or two; perhaps he would give Sean some space to breathe and grow and tend to his territory without backstabbing interruptions for a while.

It was a nice fantasy.

Sean thought of the collar, and the reaction it would garner if he brought it out at the next meeting of the Clans, and had to smile. It would make an excellent ace to keep up his sleeve, one to be savoured—Eric would know it was out there, would guess and fear that whoever had taken Nick from him would keep the collar as proof or blackmail—or both. The things Sean could do with that kind of leverage…

He turned his mind to less happy thoughts as he oversaw the cleaning-up and moving-out; as they climbed one by one into the various vehicles and left the scene of the crime/rescue behind them.

In the back-seat, Nick fell asleep tucked against Sean’s side.

According to their intel, Nick’s Aunt Marie lived across the border in Canada, and so Sean’s convoy made its way north. Nick slept for most of the journey, save for their brief pause at a rest-stop to use the facilities and gather food which was barely deserving of the name. But Nick’s Happy Meal came with a My Little Dragon toy, a ridiculous purple creature with a clumsily-painted white flower on its hindquarters, and the little Grimm-to-be seemed pleased with it. He went back to sleep with his fist curled tight around it, and his head in Sean’s lap.

Sean found himself stroking the boy’s hair entirely without meaning to.

 _No plan survives first contact with the enemy_. Well and so: Sean had meant for Nick’s parents to teach him how to be a Grimm, but that wasn’t going to happen now. Given a little time, Sean could probably find another Grimm, rare as they were in North America—but contracting a complete stranger to raise a Key was out of the question, as was leaving his training to his aunt. Marie Kessler would twist Nick into a hater of wesen, if she was allowed free rein with him, and that Sean could not allow. It was bad enough when the usual kind of Grimm decided all wesen needed to lose their heads, but a Key? Nick could grow up to purge the entire East Coast single-handedly, if the stories about his kind proved themselves accurate. Kessler couldn’t be allowed to indoctrinate him.

It would have been simpler to tell Sebastien to turn the car around, tell the convoy they were going home, take Nick back to his territory and forget about Kessler. But zaubertrank or no zaubertrank, Nick was going to need a familiar face to help him make the transition from son to orphan, New Yorker to Portlander—and, when his powers came in, the change from Grimm-to-be to Grimm.

That face had better be Kessler. But how could he justify bringing a Grimm like _her_ into his territory?

Nick’s toy slipped from his sleeping fingers and onto the floor. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, Sean picked it up. He held the thing up to his face, frowning at its cutesy expression, its utterly inadequate teeth. Looking into its blank eyes was like staring into a plastic abyss.

And within it, Sean saw the solution to his problem.

*

They reached Marie Kessler’s home a little after midnight; not late, for a Grimm, so Sean allowed himself only two quick knocks on the door.

It opened very quickly.

“Aunt Marie!” Nick flung himself forward, and the dark-haired woman who’d answered the door deftly slid her handgun onto the hallway table with one arm and scooped Nick up in the other.

“Nicholas? What—?” She looked past him to Sean, surprise rapidly hardening into wary suspicion. “Who are you? What are you doing here with my nephew? Where’s my sister?”

So they’d beaten the death notification here. Sean had thought they would.

“It’s okay, auntie,” Nick said. He was still clutching his dragon. “This is Sean. He’s my friend. He rescued me from the bad people.” He grinned up at her. “He has _wings!”_

He’d give her this: her reaction-time was next to nothing. Nick had barely finished speaking before Marie had thrust him behind her and snatched the gun back up, aiming it two-handed at Sean’s head.

“Anunnaku,” she snarled.

Sean raised a single eyebrow. “If you know what I am, then you know you’d need a lot more than _that_ —” he nodded at the gun, “—to kill me.”

She was fast; he was faster. She fired, and before the bullet had left the barrel Sean had whipped his wings around himself, silken feathers crystallised so that the bullet struck with a sound like hitting metal; the faintest twitch deflected it harmlessly into a wall. He did the same with the second, and the third, and he ran out of patience when Nick started screaming for his aunt to stop: he lashed out, and the tip of his wing sliced—

—Through Kessler’s gun, and not her body. He didn’t even brush her hands.

“If you’re quite done,” Sean said coolly, as the pieces fell to the floor. “We have business to discuss.”

“I have no business with Anunnaki!” Marie snapped.

“You do now,” Sean said, letting his voice strike like a whip. He switched to German, confident that she knew it and wanting to keep the news from Nick for a little longer. _“~Your sister and brother-in-law were murdered earlier tonight by Verrat who were there for your nephew. By the time I caught up with them, Nick was on a plane and in a collar.~”_ He drew the—now broken—collar from his pocket for her inspection.

She paled, but stood unbowed, one arm holding Nick back behind her. She made no move to touch the collar, but nodded at the crest on it with a sharp, angry gesture. _“~Which one of you claims that sign?~”_

Sean considered her, weighing the advantages of telling her. On the one hand, Eric was one of the Blood, and the Blood did not permit lesser beings to sit in judgement of them. On the other hand…it was Eric. _“~His name is Asarluhi Eiríkr Merodach Reintsema Ka’a_ _Š_ _ēlebu,~”_ he said slowly, _“~but these days he goes by Eric Renard.~”_

“ _~And which one are you?~”_

Sean gave her a slow, lazy smile. _“~Are you going to become one of my Sangvalier?~”_

She recoiled. _“~I’ll cut my own throat before I take your blood!~”_

“ _~Then you don’t get my truename,~”_ he said simply. He managed not to laugh at the frustration that flashed across her face: he was young, not naive. Did she really think he would give up his name so easily? _“~But you can call me Sean.~”_

“ _~And what do you want, Sean Anunn? Your kind don’t bring home lost Grimms like stray puppies.~”_

“ _~Occasionally, we do,~”_ he said, flicking a pointed glance Nick’s way. The boy was wide-eyed and uncertain, looking back and forth between his aunt and his rescuer, and Sean regretted that he had to witness this. At least he didn’t know what was being said. _“~That’s what I’m here to discuss.~”_

“Nicholas, go upstairs,” Marie said sharply, without looking away from Sean. This was a Grimm who was in full possession of her natural instincts, who knew a predator when she saw one. _She_ would never snuggle into a Prince as she fell asleep. “Go to the room you stayed in last time you were here, okay?”

 _< NO!>_ Sean hadn’t meant to speak, never mind use the Behfel, but it came tearing out from deep in his chest, his gloire detonating outwards in a shockwave, and Nick and Marie both froze in place under the weight of the command.

Or, no. _Marie_ froze, gripped by the Behfel; but Nick only held himself still, wide-eyed and scared.

“Sean?” he asked hesitantly.

Sean hadn’t lost control of himself like that in decades. He didn’t know what surprised him more: that he’d used the Behfel without meaning to, like a nestling—or that _it hadn’t worked on Nick_.

A shudder rippled through Sean’s wings and down his spine; he stretched his neck and rolled his head, settling himself, pulling back his gloire. “I’m sorry, little one. Your aunt…startled me.” In German, he addressed Marie. _“~My apologies, Miss Kessler. But I think letting Nick out of your sight would be ill-advised just now. I can’t guarantee that there aren’t more of Eric’s agents waiting for an opportunity.~”_

Her eyes sharpened with understanding. “It’s all right, Nick. Just stay by me for a minute. _~What do you_ _**want** _ _, Anunn?~”_

“ _~I want to offer you my protection,~”_ Sean said. _“~And I want you to take it. Nick is going to become…something very special, if he lives long enough. Something every Prince in the world will want very, very badly. I discovered Eric’s plans by pure chance, but he’s not going to stop. He’ll keep coming, and so will anyone else who learns what he knows. I know your reputation, Miss Kessler. But even you can’t protect your nephew from all Seven Clans.~”_

“ _~But you can? For what price, I wonder? Or am I supposed to believe you’d do this out of the goodness of your heart?~”_ Marie asked. She hadn’t relaxed one inch, and Sean wondered how many weapons she had within reach here in the hallway.

Not enough to take him on.

“ _~I can,~”_ Sean said. He let his eyes woge, the hazel stars around his pupils that had so enchanted Nick lighting up with bright, auroric fire. _“~And I have no price. But I do have two conditions.~”_

Marie laughed, a sharp, cynical sound. _“~Of course you do. Thanks, but no thanks, your majesty. I already told you I won’t take your blood, and I’m not letting you get your claws—sorry, your_ _**teeth** _ _into my nephew—~”_

“ _~Miss Kessler, by this time tomorrow Nick and I will be safely ensconced in my canton,~”_ Sean cut in coolly. _“~Whether you join us is entirely up to you. You’re a rogue Grimm who kills without authority or compunction, and under normal circumstances I’d kill you the moment you came within sight of my borders. But for Nick’s sake, I’m willing to make an exception. This once.~”_ He tilted his head slightly. _“~But there is no version of events where I leave here tonight without him. I would much rather you came with us peacefully, but if you make me go through you, I will.~”_

She flushed an angry, ruddy red. _“~Why should I trust you?~”_ she demanded. _“~I know what your kind do with mine. I know how you groom your Grimms into pets; I know about the_ droit du seigneur _. What’s to stop you from doing that to Nick?~”_

“ _~If that was what I wanted, why would I be here?~”_ Sean asked. Idiot, hate-blinded woman. This was what came of letting Grimms go rogue. _“~I rescued your nephew hours ago. If I wanted him, he’d be mine, and we’d be well on our way to his new home. You’d never even know he was gone until the police came knocking.~”_ He spread his hands, illustrating the tableau they made. _“~Instead, I’m on your doorstep, offering a reasonable choice to a woman who_ _ **shot**_ _me. I think I’ve made it clear I don’t subscribe to the Old Ways.~”_

For the first time, he seemed to have gotten through to her; a frown sketched itself between her brows as she considered him, her gaze gaze [Steinlader](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Steinadler)-sharp . _“~What are your conditions?~”_ she asked finally.

“ _~First: you will cease hunting immediately, in or out of my canton, for as long as you live within my borders. If I catch you spilling wesen blood without my permission, you won’t have to worry about Reapers, because I will execute you personally.~”_

“ _~What an honour,~”_ Marie said sarcastically.

“ _~Second,~”_ he continued, ignoring her, _“~you will not tell Nick that_ _either of you are_ _Grimm_ _s_ _, or_ _that Grimms exist, or_ _teach him anything about wesen and our world.~”_ This was the solution that had struck him on the drive up here. _“~_ _He will grow up as a Kehrseite until he comes into his powers.~”_

She stared at him. _“~Why on earth would you want that? Or expect me to agree to it?~”_

“ _~I want him to form his own opinions of us, rather than inheriting yours,~”_ Sean said. _“~And I expect you to agree to it because it’s the only way you live to see the dawn.~”_ He was taking Nick home, and he wasn’t leaving anyone alive behind him who could identify him as Nick’s new guardian. Eric’s hounds would be all too happy to tear a description of him out of Marie when they caught up with her, and then Eric would know where the Key was. Eric was going to suspect Sean anyway; Sean wouldn’t allow anyone to throw more fuel on those flames. He had to keep his brother on the back-foot, uncertain and unable to commit to an attack. If Eric gained certainty, if he _knew_ who his hidden enemy was…

Unacceptable.

Marie probably thought he meant to kill her because he didn’t leave threats at his back, which was laughable, because she could never be a direct threat to _him_. Sean didn’t care what train of thought led her to slowly nod cautious acceptance—only that one had.

“ _~_ _You didn’t have to bring him here,_ _~_ _”_ she admitted grudgingly. _“_ _~_ _I do see that._ _I’ve never heard of a prince who would._ _~_ _”_ She gave him a look incisive as a scalpel, as if she could peel away his skin and see what lay beneath. _“_ _~_ _You swear you’ll keep Nick safe? And not lay a finger on him?_ _~_ _”_

“ _~_ _When he comes of age he can decide for himself how close he wants us to be,_ _~_ _”_ Sean said. _“_ _~_ _I’ll take him into my service, but I won’t take him to my bed unless he wants to be there. There will be no_ droit du seigneur _._ _~”_ He met her gaze flatly. “ _~_ _After tonight, unless it be to save his life, I will not touch him with skin or wing or power until he reaches adulthood, nor take him into my court before his true nature awakens._ _~”_ He woged his right hand, just enough to unsheath his claws, and before Kessler could react he pricked his forefinger on his thumb’s talon, letting a dark bead form as he gave his formal oath. _“_ _~_ _By my name, by my blood, and by the Mother, I do so swear._ _~”_

He licked the blood from his fingertip, and raised his eyebrows. _“_ _~_ _Satisfied?_ _~”_

She didn’t speak, but the gunshot-shock on her face said all that needed saying. She must have some small idea of the seriousness of the _e_ _š_ _sa_ _ĝ_ _ba_ —the triple-knotted promise—to one of the Blood.

Good. It made things easier.

He sheathed his claws. _“_ _~_ _Then pack your things. I want to be back on the road in an hour._ _~”_

She nodded jerkily, once, and took a deep breath that shook a little, and Sean remembered that her sister and brother-in-law were dead, and she’d learned it, become the legal guardian of a child, given up hunting and faced a Prince all in the span of—he glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes? Not bad. It must be true that Grimms were resistant to shock. For Nick’s sake, he hoped the boy had a little of that resistance already, to help him through the coming days.

He’d given Marie an hour; it only took her half that to be ready, one hand on the strap of her satchel and the other holding Nick’s. _“_ _~_ _I want my Grimm supplies kept safe,_ _~_ _”_ she said fiercely. _“_ _~_ _They’re Nick’s inheritance too._ _~_ _”_

Sean gestured behind him, where Catherine was speaking on the phone. _“_ _~_ _They’ll be transported to my personal vault. My people are already taking care of it._ _~_ _”_ He quirked an eyebrow. “ _~_ _Now’s the time to tell me if your hoard is booby-trapped._ _~”_

She smirked. “ _~_ _There might be one or two surprises waiting for intruders._ _~”_

“ _~_ _Disable them,_ _~”_ he said bluntly.

“ _~_ _What’s the matter, your majesty? Afraid your people can’t handle an old Grimm’s tricks?_ _~”_ But she went with Catherine, and Catherine’s various aides, reluctantly leaving Nick with Sean rather than take him along.

“What’s going on?” Nick asked the moment his aunt was out of sight. “Aunt Marie says we’re going to live with you now? Why? What about my mom and dad?”

Sean resisted the urge to sigh, or go drag Marie back and _shake_ her. “You’re not going to live with me,” he said gently. “But you will live _near_ me. I’m taking you and your aunt someplace safe, where people like the ones who took you tonight won’t be able to find you. It’s far away, but I think you’ll like it, and your aunt will be with you.”

“But what about my mom and dad?” the boy repeated. His voice climbed slightly higher. “Where are they?”

There was no good answer to that. Sean was still trying to find one when Marie and Catherine returned, Catherine’s subordinates already beginning to move crates and trunks, and the two women eyeing each other warily—although not half so much as Marie looked at _Sean,_ when she saw her nephew’s distress.

“What did you do to him?” She bolted to Nick, crouching down and enfolding him in an awkward, clearly unpractised hug. “Nick? What’s wrong?”

“ _Where are mom and dad?”_ Nick cried. “We can’t go away without them! Where are they? Why won’t anybody tell me where they are?”

Marie looked into Nick’s face helplessly. “Nicky...”

Maybe he saw something in her expression, some clue his tired six-year-old mind couldn’t interpret, but that his blood and bone understood just fine, because Nick—finally, after all he’d been through tonight—burst into tears like a levee giving way. He clung to his aunt, shaking and sobbing, and Marie held him tightly, saying nothing as he cried and cried.

Sean wasn’t sure Nick really understood that his parents were dead—no one had said it—but the boy had been through more than enough tonight to deserve the release of a few tears. Sean couldn’t begrudge him that. But he did pull the memory-potion from within his coat, and offered it to Marie over Nick’s shoulder.

“It’ll make him forget tonight,” he said quietly. “It might be...kinder.”

He didn’t know if she would trust him—or a zaubertrank—but after a beat she took the vial and slipped it into her own pocket, thanking him with a brisk nod. He bowed his head and retreated, giving her and Nick a few minutes of relative privacy.

When they stopped for lunch, half a dozen hours and hundreds of miles later, Sebastien showed him what he’d found in the back of the car: a slender crystal bottle, empty but for a last few drops inside, dark as blood.

* * *

1 French, meaning ‘crown’.

2 French for ‘treasure’.


	3. Scrapbook Snapshots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I redesigned the Hexenbiests, and I’m not sorry. I think scary creatures are way scarier and more dangerous when they’re beautiful, so I scrapped the living-corpses thing. (The hubby tells me I have weird beauty standards and the Hexenbiests are still more terrifying than pretty. You lot be the judges!)
> 
> Also, spoilers for Dragonheart (1996). The section where Nick is fourteen will probably make absolutely no sense to anyone who hasn’t seen the film, but the Wiki page for the movie has a pretty comprehensive plot summary for those who are interested.
> 
> Also-also: all the police cases described were taken from various Portland news sources—they’re all based on true events! That said, I played fast and loose with Nick’s transition from police officer to detective; my understanding is that it generally takes a lot longer than it takes Nick here, but my justification is that his Grimm/Schalfendgrimm skills make him extra amazing at his job—we see that clearly enough in canon.
> 
> Also-also- _also:_ I have updated the tags a bit. **This chapter contains (extremely) temporary character death** , plus smut - including what might be my first attempts at M/F sex in... _literally ever???_ Have I ever written it before? I don’t think I have, folks, so try not to judge it too harshly, I guess. RE tags, I am unsure whether to tag this fic as teratophilia, xenophilia, or exophilia, so if you have an opinion on that, let me know.
> 
> Once again, terms you should know either include links to the fandom wiki or have footnotes. Everything else is meant to be a mystery. This chapter includes a lot more made-up-by-me terms than the last one, because there’s a lot more worldbuilding. I hope you like it, because I had a ton of fun coming up with it all :D
> 
> Finally, shoutouts to **crazywriterperson** , because I got so sucked into this chapter I ended up ghosting him (I hope this chapter makes up for it a bit!), **ShannisorranElf61** , whose comment about multiple time-jumps let me figure out how to write this chapter at all, and **Corvus_Aconitum** , who absolutely made my day with their review of the last chapter.
> 
> Now, onwards!

When Nick was six, his parents died in a car crash.

He didn’t remember it. He remembered the day before, and the day after, but not the day they died, and when he was older he wasn’t so sure that was a bad thing. Like the move to Portland probably hadn’t been a bad thing, even if it was a lot for a six year old to take all at once: new home, new school, new sort-of-mom in the person of his Aunt Marie. But it was a home that wasn’t wallpapered with memories of his dead parents, and a school where he didn’t have a teacher who’d known them, and a sort-of-mom who was grieving too, and never told him boys weren’t supposed to cry.

So: When Nick was six, his parents died in a car crash, and he went to live with his Aunt Marie in Portland, Oregon. Their new house was a _house,_ not an apartment, with two floors _and_ an attic _and_ a yard just for them, and it was strange not to be in his old home anymore, but the new one was bright and cosy with room for all their things. Their neighbours were weird, but nice; for weeks after they moved in, he and his aunt found casseroles and pies left on their doorstep, by strangers who never introduced themselves but left notes of welcome with the food. Changing schools was bad, but not as much as it could have been. There were a lot more language classes than he’d had before—German and French and Latin, on top of Spanish—but his new school had a cooler playground, and a pool for gym class. He’d been scared that everyone would have already made friends by the time he transferred in, but a bunch of _other_ kids transferred in too, in the weeks after he did: four of them, all to his grade, Liam and Xiulan and Mason and Emily. They kept to themselves at first, but Nick kept catching them watching him until the day Xiulan stomped up to him in the playground and loudly asked him to play. The others tumbled over themselves like puppies to join in, and never really left.

On June 18th, his birthday, the gifts-thing happened again; Nick opened the door to go to school and found dozens of little presents waiting for him on the porch and in the postbox. They were strange but wonderful things, wrapped in tissue paper or wool or leaves; a stone with a hole in it strung on a leather cord, a little doll made of acorns, a small silver pocket-watch, a wooden dagger with a point like a thorn, and—in the only one that came in a box, wrapped in black paper with a gold ribbon—an incredibly beautiful ball-jointed toy dragon bigger than a kitten, made of black resin with delicately articulated, feathered wings.

Aunt Marie said a very bad word when she saw the presents, and an even _worse_ one when she saw the dragon, and she swept them all up into a box together and snapped at Nick when he tried to protest.

(He found them in the back of her closet a few weeks later, and carefully hid them under his own bed—except for the dragon, which he kept in a nest made out of a few of his shirts in the drawer of his bedside-table. He named it Shane, and cracked open the drawer when he went to bed so it could keep watch for nightmares and monsters.)

When Nick was six, his parents died in a car crash. But he survived it.

*

_(When Nick was six, Sean called for representatives from every Wesenkin within his territory to attend him, and summoned his court and coven._

_When they gathered, civilians and courtiers and sorcerers alike, they found a_ [ _ Königschlange _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/K%C3%B6nigschlange) _bound on his knees at the centre of the throne room, a gag in his mouth and a Reaper’s scythe on the floor beside him, and their Prince standing over him, black wings folded like bladed fans._

_“When I came to this country,” Sean said, “it was partly because there was no room for me anywhere else.”_

_The quirk of his mouth gave them permission to chuckle, and the ripple of amusement lessened the tension in the room, helped put them at ease despite the unprecedented summons and the terrified Reaper. Violence was coming—his wings being on display promised it—but it was not directed at them. Whatever they’d been gathered for, he was still the lord they knew: not a trigger-happy tyrant only too happy to turn his anger on his own subjects, like too many of his kindred, but the Prince in the West, who had claimed and tamed the West Coast in nine days and fiercely protected it—and the Wesen who lived under his aegis—ever since._

_“But it was also because I wanted to do things differently from the rest of my family,” Sean said when the laughter died away. “I wanted to honour our pasts without being shackled by them. I wanted to forge new traditions to fit a new century, and prune back the old ways that no longer fit. I wanted to make a place for Wesen in the modern world, and I think that, together, we’ve done just that.”_

_He smiled, true and genuine, and let his gloire spill through the space, carrying his fierce pride and pleasure as a near-tangible thing to every man, woman and other present. “I’m proud to claim this canton,” he said, “and to be able to say that there is no other on Earth like it.”_

_He saw smiles answer his, and spines straighten as his people stood taller, and felt even more of the tension drain out of the room._

_“But looking forward doesn’t mean abandoning our heritage,” Sean continued after a brief pause. “Once upon a time, the relationship between Grimms and Wesen was very different to what it is today. Most, if not all of you, grew up in this country where the Grimms are feral, the stuff of your children’s nightmares. Some of you will know that even on other continents, where no Grimm goes unclaimed, they are most often kept as attack dogs and assassins. There are exceptions...but not many._

_“Once they were knights.” The moment he’d mentioned Grimms, the majority of the crowd had flinched or paled or reached for the comfort of a loved one’s hand, but Sean’s gloire held them in a net of gold, a blinding light driving back the shadows of fear. “Once they were the protectors and guardians of Wesen everywhere, paladins of hope and sanctuary instead of dealers of death and nightmares, and_ _**that** _ _is a tradition worth reclaiming. That is what I want for my territory._

_“Which is why I have brought a Schlafendgrimm child to Portland.”_

_Only the most suicidal of Wesen would have burst out in protests at a Prince’s declaration—if that Prince’s gloire let them protest at all—but in any other canton, there would still have been some outbursts of fear._

_Here, though—here and now, Sean heard a few of his subjects inhale sharply; one or two soft gasps; nervousness was visible on most faces. But no outright fear, and only a lifetime of keeping his composure stopped Sean from roaring with the fierce, blazing pride that surged through him then._

_His subjects weren’t afraid, because they trusted him. They trusted him more than they feared Grimms, and that fear ran_ _**deep** , especially in this part of the world, where ‘Grimm’ was a by-word for ‘serial killer of Wesen.’_

 _They were his. His subjects, his vassals, his_ _**people**. If there’d ever been any doubt, it died in that moment of near-silence._

_Which was why he made the decision to trust them back._

_“He is a Schlafendgrimm,” Sean repeated. A Grimm-to-be, one with the blood but not yet the powers of a Grimm. Although little Nicholas, Sean remembered, had shrugged off the Behfel as if it were nothing. Most likely because… “And he is a Key.”_

_Oh, he’d earned their faith, the Wesen of his canton; proven himself a Prince worthy of the name. Because no screams greeted his pronouncement, and no one fainted. More than one of his people woged—Sean saw fur and feathers, scales and skin in more colours than a rainbow could dream of, eyes coming alight like a wave of jewelled stars across the gathering—but no one broke and ran. No one **broke** , full stop._

_Because he held them whole. Together. His._

_“It will be years yet before he goes through the Augenöffnung,” Sean told them. “That gives us time.”_

_He smiled, and spread his wings, and his gloire flared like holy fire, a saint’s halo, a god’s glory. “We in this canton have always been redefining what it means to be Wesen,” he said. “We are the breakers of new ground, the trailblazers—the history-makers. We will be no different with our Grimm.” He swept his eyes across the crowd, meeting gazes, making everyone present feel as though he were speaking to them alone. “I don’t need to tell you how vulnerable he will be before he comes into his powers, or how fiercely he’ll be hunted if my kin discover what he is. So we will revive the old traditions of the Knights Grimm—but we’ll do it in our own way._

_“Our Grimm will grow up ignorant of what he is. He won’t know about our world, about us. But we will be a part of his life from the beginning; we will surround him with Wesen, and until he can protect himself, we will protect him._ _**We** _ _will be the ones keeping_ _**him** _ _safe. And by the time he can see us, he will already know us. He will never think Wesen are monsters to be put down, because he will already know the people beneath the woge.”_

_Murmurs spread through the room, wondering and bemused. Sean allowed it. This was an unorthodox thing he was doing, and he knew it, and his people knew it too. But his unorthodoxy was why they were here, why they lived within his canton, under his rule. Why they had all made the choice to stay within, or come from near and far to join, the territory held by the youngest of Princes. If they’d wanted traditional, they would have been the vassals of some other Anunnaku._

_“This is something that’s never been done before,” Sean said, when they quietened. “But I know we can do it. If you can look past your fear of Grimms, we can teach this one not to fear us. We can be the ones to forge a Key, and he can unlock the world for us.”_

_He spread his hands, palms up. “He’s just a child. You have nothing to fear from him. So put that fear aside. See him, so he will see us in turn. Fight for him, so he will fight for us. Love him, so he will love us.”_

_He looked down at the bound Reaper. “He is ours, and we will guard him. Starting now.”_

_And he took off the Königschlange’s head._

*

When Nick was seven, he spent a lot of time in other people’s houses.

His own home was quiet with just him and Marie in it. His aunt was a librarian, and she spent most of her free time reading, leaving Nick with a lot of time to fill by himself every day. They didn’t have a television, because Aunt Marie didn’t like them, and Nick couldn’t play with his favourite toys where she could see, because they all came from the birthday gifts she’d confiscated and that he’d stolen back. He knew she would take them away again if she realised he had them—even if he still had no idea why she hated them so much.

So he visited his friends a lot. None of them ever wanted to visit _his_ house—Liam mumbled something about Aunt Marie being scary before Emily hissed at him to shut up—but he was welcome at theirs, even if their parents all seemed a bit hesitant or wary at first. The first few times he went to Mason’s house, his dad never left them in a room alone; his first dinner at Emily’s, her mother laid the table without knives or forks, only spoons—which made eating spaghetti _really_ hard—as if she was afraid of someone getting stabbed.

But bit by bit, everyone relaxed. It became the norm for one of his friends’ parents to pick Nick up from school, where Aunt Marie could come and get him later, after her shift at the library was over. Mason’s dad taught Nick the basics of baseball, and Emily’s mom took the child-lock off the cutlery drawer, and Nick drank in all the noise and bustle of busy, happy homes like a sun-starved seedling drinking in light. All of his friends had big families (Xiulan had _seven_ brothers and sisters!), and being accepted into them felt more like gaining a treasure trove of cousins than just making friends. Liam’s big sister taught him how to climb trees, and Mason’s older brother let them lick the bowl when he was (done) baking; Emily’s dad taught him how to swim, and Xiulan’s mom took them walking in the woods and showed Nick how to move through the undergrowth without making noise.

And _all_ of them were big on sending him home with leftovers. _Growing boys need to eat!_ was a refrain Nick got used to hearing, but he didn’t mind: he and his friends were always building forts or playing pirates-and-aliens or racing around the local park, competing to see who could get higher on the swings, and he had an active child’s appetite.

The weird part was how many complete strangers seemed to agree that he needed to eat more: the lunch lady at school always gave him extra fishfingers or corn dogs or whatever the protein was that day, and when one of Xiulan’s brothers took them to the ice-cream truck—the pink truck, the only one any of Nick’s friends ever got ice-cream from—Nick’s was always free, and no one ever seemed to find that weird. Most of the sellers at the farmer’s market charged Marie less when Nick was around, even if the person before them had bought the exact same thing for twice as much; people picnicking at the park would invite Nick and his friends to take a sandwich or cupcake, and when it was someone Nick’s friends knew (which it almost always was) they usually accepted.

They were always _really_ _good_ cupcakes, too.

It wasn’t always food. Mr Clarke at the second-hand store always found a reason to lower the price on kid’s clothes or sneakers or anything else that was obviously meant for Nick; there was a stain here, look, and see, the hem was fraying there, he would knock a few dollars off for the poor condition. Miss Esparza at the second-hand _book_ store did it too, and more often than not she added an extra book to the pile for Nick, for free, because, she said, she just _knew_ it was one he’d love (and she was usually right). Things like that made Aunt Marie so mad—not in a shouty way (she almost never shouted), but her face would get pale and her voice got all stiff, and Nick knew to leave her alone for a few hours after they got home.

When that happened—when Aunt Marie was mad, or he got sad and missed his parents, or there was something else that made him feel kind of sick and upset—Nick would reach into his pocket, and rub the nose of the small plastic dragon he carried with him everywhere. It was a little cheap toy like the kind you could get at a dollar store or in a cereal box, and Nick didn’t know where it had come from, but holding it made him feel safe. He would have carried Shane around instead, if he could have, but Shane was too big—and anyway, he was scared of Aunt Marie finding out that Nick had stolen Shane back after she took him away.

There were birthday presents waiting on the porch that year, too.

*

 _(When Nick was seven, Sean oversaw the negotiations between a_ [ _ Genio Innocuo _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Genio_Innocuo) _research team and the_ [ _ Balam _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Balam) _-run private security firm they wanted to hire to guard their labs; passed judgement on a dispute between two_ [ _ Weten Ogen _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Weten_Ogen) _families; rejected the requests of two male_ [ _ Naiads _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Naiad) _who wanted to take up residence in his canton; executed a_ [ _ Musai _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Musai) _who thought her power to incite obsession would make her a star in Hollywood; granted sanctuary to a_ [ _ Wallahara _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Willahara) _clan and killed the_ [ _ Leporem Venator _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Leporem_Venator) _who’d been hunting them; and arranged for various criminals who’d slipped through the_ _Kehrseite_ _justice system to be provided to the local_ [ _ Spinnetods _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Spinnetod) _when it was time for the spider-Wesen to eat and molt._

_And his Sangvaliers caught eight scouts belonging to foreign Princes sniffing around the borders._

_Sean sent them back to their lords with his venom in their veins. The corpses were rendered almost unrecognisable by the poison, but he trusted his distant kin to_ _**keep** _ _their distance while they sorted out who belonged to who._

_The Reapers stupid enough to test his patience, he sent back to Europe in pieces.)_

*

When Nick was eight, he found an action figure of Angel from the X-Men in a second-hand store.

Aunt Marie refused to buy it for him. “You have plenty of toys,” she said. “You don’t need another one.”

Nick didn’t know how to explain the strange fascination he felt for Angel’s wings, or how looking at them made his chest feel tight and his heart pound; like being scared, but not. Instead of trying he stayed quiet, and put the toy back on the shelf, and let Aunt Marie look for a pair of jeans to replace the ones he’d worn out.

They found a pair in the end, and Nick didn’t bring up the action figure when his aunt went to pay. Money was a grown-up thing, and he didn’t understand everything about it, but he knew that they didn’t have a lot of it. They never ordered pizza on Friday nights, like Mason’s family did sometimes, and they didn’t go on holidays like Emily and Xiulan did every summer. Nick’s clothes were bought second-hand and he had to be careful with them, not rip them or ruin them the way other boys were always ruining _their_ clothes. New toys were for birthdays and Christmas, and that was all.

Nick couldn’t stop thinking about the action figure, though. When they got home he drew Angel, over and over. He kept it up for weeks, a kind of frantic obsession driving his pencils over the pages. He could never make Angel look _right,_ even though he was _good_ at drawing—really good—everyone said so. But Angel looked wrong, even when Nick’s pictures looked exactly like the toy he’d seen in the store, and it drove Nick a little crazy.

He picked up the black pencil by accident, without looking, but the moment he pressed it to the paper it was like something _clicked_ deep inside his head. The tightness in his chest evaporated when he drew Angel’s wings black instead of white: it was as if Nick had been holding his breath for ages and ages and had just let it out, and the relief was as stunning as it was confusing.

He coloured Angel’s hair black, too, instead of blond. He looked much better that way.

*

_(When Nick was nine, Catherine officially presented her daughter to the coven and the court._

_Sean could feel the power in the younger Hexenbiest from the moment she entered the room, thirteen and already holding herself like a queen, needing no crown but her own golden hair. She met his eyes without flinching, fierce and proud even as she knelt before his throne, her gown of garnet velvet pooling around her like blood._

_“Sire,” Catherine said formally, “may I make known to you my firstborn, the heir of my blood and my choice, my daughter Adalind.”_

_Sean considered her, this young girl Catherine considered worthy, one she was proud enough of to formally present to her Prince. That was not a given: Adalind was his as all Wesen in his canton were his—to protect and defend, to see cared for—but not every child merited a Prince’s personal attention. Especially not at so young an age._

_But Catherine was not one to allow maternal feelings to gild her estimation of another Hexenbiest, and the power Sean felt in the girl—and the way she held his gaze, as if_ _**she** _ _were taking_ _**his** _ _measure—decided him._

_“Rise,” he commanded, and when Adalind did so, so did he. Sean stood up from his throne and woged, letting his human shape fall away completely. His gloire swept through the space like a solar flare, resplendent radiance and puissant power garbing him in a god’s divinity, and in response his court bared their Wesen selves as they might bare their throats to his teeth, salute and submission and a show of allegiance all in a single gesture:_ [ _ Fuchsbau _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Fuchsbau) _and_ [ _ Jägerbar _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/J%C3%A4gerbar) _,_ [ _ Mauvais Dentes _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Mauvais_Dentes) _and_ [ _ Blutbad _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Blutbad) _,_ [ _ Skalenzahne _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Skalenzahne) _and_ [ _ Mellifer _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Mellifer) _and_ [ _ Löwen _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/L%C3%B6wen) _and all the rest woged with him and for him to see him accept the court’s newest daughter._

_Adalind woged too—an instinctive reaction to the sight of her first Anunnaku, Sean thought, rather than out of deference, but the effect was the same and did not displease him: her blonde hair washed pale and bright into true, shining white, starfire spun into glowing silk. The skin of her face bleached white as snow, and facetted black jewels coalesced into being around eyes suddenly flooded with ebony. Everything below the bridge of her nose flushed a sparkling black, her lower face and throat and arms all shining as if she’d been painted with liquid glitter, with midnight stardust. Only her mouth stood out: amidst all the black, her lips shimmered like mother-of-pearl, drawing the eye like an angler fish’s shining light._

_She was lovely now: she was going to be exquisite when she was older. But he couldn’t think of her in terms of a potential future consort, no matter that Catherine had told him—warned him—that her daughter had her eye set on the consort’s seat. Adalind’s scent was that of a child: faintly laced with the beginnings of puberty, thick with the sweet spice of her power—and not just neutralising but actively deadening even the possibility of sexual interest. She was simply too young for him to see her that way._

_For now, he walked to her and bent down low to kiss her white brow in royal benediction._

_“As the sisters of my coven are mine own, so will I cherish their daughters as my own blood,” Sean said, loudly and clearly enough to be heard from every corner of the room. “I see and acknowledge you, Adalind Schade, First Daughter of a First Daughter. My blessing and my protection I give you now, to last all the days of your life, to be withdrawn only if you break my laws or betray me and mine.” He pulled back to meet her eyes. “Those who do you harm I will hunt to the ends of the earth; those who make you weep will pay in blood for every tear you shed; my strength will be your shield and your enemies will be mine, from now until the sun’s last breath.” He used one of his claws to prick his thumb, and pressed the small wound against Adalind’s forehead, gently brushing his blood across her brow. “By my name, by my blood, and by the Mother, I do so swear.”_

_He smiled at the young Hexenbiest. “Be welcome in my court, Adalind. There will be a place for you in it, and in my coven, should you choose to claim them when you come of age.”_

_She smiled right back at him. “Your Highness,” she said, “I can’t imagine a greater honour.”_

*

When Nick was ten, Aunt Marie gave him a book of Greek legends. It was full of stories about heroes defeating terrible monsters—Theseus and the Minotaur, Hercules and the Nemean Lion, Perseus and Medusa—and she encouraged him to spend as much time as he wanted poring over the gory illustrations. She always smiled when she walked past his door and saw him lying on his bed and frowning down at the pages, swinging his legs back and forth as he read.

“Did you finish it?” she asked, when she came in one Thursday after school with his fresh laundry.

“Mmhm.” Nick scrambled up to help her put away the clothes.

“What did you think?”

Nick scrunched up his forehead. “I think all those ‘heroes’ are jerks,” he said finally.

“What?” His aunt stared at him, astonished. “Why?”

“Because it wasn’t the monsters’ fault! Nobody needed to _kill_ them.” He shoved pairs of socks into a drawer angrily. “The Minotaur was only born at all because Minos stole the cow, and nobody tried to see whether he could eat anything except people! They just locked him up and fed him _more_ people, when maybe he’d have been a vegetarian if they just gave him some grass. And, Hercules killed the Nemean Lion, but what if he’d just taken him somewhere there were no people and let him go there instead? And Medusa, she turned people into stone, but only because Athena cursed her, and she went to live on an island far away from everybody. She wasn’t hurting anybody! The only people she hurt were the ones who came looking for her to kill her, which seems fair to _me.”_

His aunt looked a bit like a Looney Tunes character who’d had an anvil dropped on her head. “I don’t think the Minotaur could eat grass, Nicky,” she said after a moment. She sounded a bit choked.

Nick made a doubtful noise. He didn’t see why a man who was part cow wouldn’t be able to eat grass. But, “Then they could have just fed him bad people,” he insisted stubbornly. “It wasn’t his _fault.”_

The book disappeared from his room a few days after that, and it didn’t come back. Nick didn’t notice: by then he was nose-deep in a copy of _The Reluctant Dragon 1_ he’d found at the school library, and he had no time for Hercules.

He did like the Disney movie a few years later, though.

*

 _(When Nick was eleven, Sean got a call from the boy’s school; specifically, from the_ [ _ Pflichttreue _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Pflichttreue) _Sean had had installed as headmistress there the year Nick joined it._

_“Has something happened to Nicholas?” he demanded the moment he picked up the phone. His Anunn-self burned beneath his skin, his whole body drawn tight with shrapnel-fear and leaden dread and the vicious desire to woge. He could feel his wings pushing to get out, his claws slicing his fingers from the inside, his fangs aching in his mouth. What other reason could the woman have for calling him, other than something having happened to Nick?_

_A Reaper? The agent of another Prince? Had anyone been hurt, had anyone been killed,_ _**had anything happened to Nicholas** _ _—_

_“No, Your Highness!” the woman said hastily, correctly interpreting the half-snarl that had come out of Sean’s throat. “Nothing like that. Nicholas is fine.”_

_The relief was cool water poured over flames; Sean closed his eyes, savouring the sensation and giving himself a moment to recover, for the knowledge that Nick was safe and sound to settle his body and his instincts. “Then why are you calling?” he asked, cool once more._

_“Well…” The Pflichttreue hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Nothing happened to Nicholas, sire. But I suppose you could say that…that Nicholas happened to someone else.”_

_Sean listened, his pulse returning to its normal steady rhythm as she explained: there had been a fight, not between Wesen and Grimm—or Schlafendgrimm, in Nick’s case—but between children. The picture painted was a simple one: one of the school bullies and his cronies had been tormenting another child, and Nick had stepped up and stepped in._

_“The_ _Kehrseite_ _boy threw the first punch,” the headmistress told him. “I want to be clear about that. Nicholas didn’t initiate the violence.”_

_And wasn’t that interesting? Promising, even. Sean wondered how Marie would react, when the school called her next: would she be proud of her adopted son, or angry? And if she was angry, would it be because Nick was fighting, or because Nick hadn’t_ _**started** _ _the fight?_

 _The_ _Kehrseite_ _tried to punch Nick, and the Schlafendgrimm put him on the ground. That was the long and the short of it. Sean couldn’t help the glow of pleasure and pride when he heard how swiftly and decisively Nick had dispatched his opponent—and the bully’s two sidekicks as well, when they’d tried to avenge their fallen leader. “Single-handedly?” Sean asked._

_“I’m sure his friends would have helped, but they didn’t have time to.”_

_Sean laughed softly. “Excellent. Thank you for calling me and letting me know.”_

_“Of course, sire.” A hesitation. “What would you like me to do with him?”_

_“Do?” Though she couldn’t see him, Sean raised his eyebrows. “He was protecting someone who couldn’t protect themselves. That’s behaviour I want encouraged and reinforced, not punished—particularly in the case of my canton’s future Grimm. It might well be the most important thing he learns during his time at your school.”_

_“Of course, sire,” she said again. “I understand. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.”_

_“If it’s about my Grimm, never hesitate to call. One of my Sangvaliers will always answer if I’m not available.”_

_She promised to do so, thanked him again, and hung up, presumably to go handle the situation. Sean set the phone down and granted himself a private smile, and a few moments to be relieved, and pleased, and hopeful for the future Nick would one day be a part of._

_Eleven years old, and already a knight in shining armour. If they could keep Nick on his current path, he might just live up to Sean’s wildest hopes for him._

_It wasn’t until late that night, when Sean went over the conversation in his mind, that he realised he’d called Nick not ‘the boy’ or ‘the Schlafendgrimm’, but ‘my Grimm.’ As if Nick was already full-grown and empowered and standing at his Prince’s right hand._

Not yet, _Sean told himself._

Not long, _a voice inside him whispered back.)_

*

When Nick was twelve, his aunt took him to his first Renaissance Faire, and it was _so cool!_ There were fire-eaters and wizards and archery competitions, and everyone’s clothes looked like they’d come out of a storybook—even the grown-ups were wearing costumes! Big fancy velvet dresses and leather vests and hats with _huge_ feathers and _cloaks_ —

“Look, Nick,” his aunt said, pointing. “Knights!”

There were _actual knights,_ in _actual armour,_ and they were jousting! They had big glossy horses and feathers on their helmets, and one had blue on his surcoat and the other had red, and Nick pushed and wiggled his way through the press of people until he was right up against the fence of the enclosure, as close as it was possible to get to the action.

When the knights whirled from opposite ends of the arena and galloped towards each other, lances down, Nick could feel the pounding of their horses’ hooves in his chest, forcing his heart into his throat. When wood crashed into metal and splintered, he roared with the rest of the crowd; it was just _so much more awesome_ than a soccer game, or basketball, or _anything!_

After lunch he and Aunt Marie found another knight who was giving mini lessons to kids. It wasn’t jousting—Nick had no idea how to ride a horse, anyway—but it didn’t matter: when the knight put a child-sized sword into his hands, it was like…

Like…

…He didn’t know what it was like. Like pressing a sword into the hand of a Lego knight; the _click_ of it setting into place, knowing the sword was made for that hand, and the hand was made to hold the sword. _This_ sword, Nick’s sword, was heavy and unwieldy and blunt, and not the best made, but it didn’t matter, because it still felt like two pieces of Lego connecting. When their teacher started showing them some basic forms, Nick only had to watch them once for his body to catch them, and moving through the _block-step-parry_ was like being water rushing downhill; easy, and right, and irresistible even if he’d wanted to resist.

Which he absolutely _didn’t_.

“Hey, you’re pretty good with that thing, kid,” the instructor said, and Nick grinned at him while Marie watched on proudly from the sidelines.

“We could probably find you a club to go to, if you really liked all the sword stuff today,” she said casually as they were driving home, and for once Nick didn’t stop to worry about whether they could afford it: he felt like a cola bottle with a mentos in it, fizzing over with delight and rightness and excitement, so much so that he only just kept himself from throwing himself at his aunt and hugging her, even if she _was_ driving.

_“Yes!”_

*

_(When Nick was thirteen, Sean visited the Grimm’s house._

_He knew Nick wasn’t home, because Sean had ordered the family of his_ [ _ Eisbiber _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Eisbiber) _friend—Mason, the boy’s name was—to take Nick out for the day. So there was only one person to answer the door when he knocked._

_He smiled as it opened, baring woged, star-splinter teeth. “Marie. Lovely weather we’ve been having, isn’t it?”_

_She tried to slam the door in his face, but he caught it with his hand, and even without fully woging, he could hold it against her._

_“I don’t think so.” He shoved, swinging the door wide, and she stumbled back. He crossed the threshold and closed the door behind him. “We need to talk.”_

_“We have_ _**nothing** _ _to talk about,” she hissed._

_“I have to disagree.” His voice was a vicious purr. “I received a call from your nephew’s school yesterday. Apparently they’re concerned there are problems at home. His clothes have holes in them, and his shoes are coming apart. Now the strap of his backpack’s been broken for two weeks, but it hasn’t been replaced. You have some explaining to do, Marie.”_

_She gaped at him. “His school called_ _**you**?”_

_“Be glad that they did,” he snapped, “since otherwise they’d be calling Child Services. **Explain yourself**.”_

_She grit her teeth. “I’m a librarian,” she forced out. “It’s not exactly a flashy job. Money’s tight. Sometimes Nick’s things have to last longer than I’d like.”_

_Sean stared at her. “I have been putting thirty_ _**thousand** _ _dollars in your account every month since I brought you to Portland,” he said, his voice flat but low. “The house is yours without rent or mortgage, and I cover the utilities and Nick’s school. How can money possibly be_ _**tight**?”_

_“Because I’m not taking your damn money!” she snapped. “I’m not putting Nick in debt to you so you can hold it over him later. If I thought your goons would let us move, I’d find us our own place, but even if we’re stuck here, I will not be beholden to you any more than I have to be. And neither will Nick.”_

_“Nicholas,” Sean said coolly, icy rage spreading like frost through his veins, “_ _**will** _ _be properly cared and provided for. If not by you, then by someone else. So think very carefully before you tell me that you’d rather neglect your nephew than take the money he needs for_ _**shoes without holes** _ _.”_

_She blanched. “You can’t take him away from me!”_

_“This is my canton,” Sean said coldly. “I can do anything I want. If you don’t like it, then get out. But Nicholas won’t be going with you.”_

_Marie’s hands curled into fists at her sides, the colour draining from her face as the reality of her situation sank in. “I’m not going anywhere without my nephew.”_

_“The question isn’t where you’re going, but where Nicholas stays,” Sean said. “And whether that’s with you, or a better guardian.”_

_“And what will you tell him,” she snapped back, rallying a little, “when he asks where I’ve gone? Sooner or later you’ll have to give him answers. Do you think you’ll win his loyalty by breaking up the last of his family? He’ll hate you for it. You don’t want a Grimm who hates you at your back,_ majesty.”

That’s always been your problem, _Sean thought_. You’ll never understand that I don’t want him at my back. I want him by my side.

_“No,” he said aloud. “But he’ll never ask.”_

_“Of course he will!”_

_He smiled at her, a sharp, cold thing like a butcher’s hook. “No. He won’t.” He took a step towards her, his fangs aching so sore-sweet when she stepped back instinctively. He towered over her, looming, draconic, and she squared her stance but he could smell the bitter fear-sweat on her skin, could hear her pulse race to escape him. “Because I will have you_ _**killed** , and it will look like nothing more than a tragic accident. He’ll never have a reason to question it. I’m sure he’ll be sad, but he’ll get over it. Children do.”_

_She glared at him with pure, sulphurous hatred._

_Sean’s smirk widened. “I expect to get a call on Monday,” he said softly, “informing me that Nicholas is properly attired and equipped for all his classes. If I don’t get that call, my Sangvaliers will be paying a call on_ _ **you**_ , _Marie Kessler. And Nick will go live with a lovely_[ _Steinadler_](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Steinadler) _family who are more than happy to take over raising a future hero.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do we understand each other?”_

_“Yes,” Marie said through gritted teeth._

_“I’m very glad to hear it.” He stepped back, allowing her some breathing room. “I’ll see myself out.”_

_He got the call, bright and early on Monday morning. He’d expected nothing less.)_

*

When Nick was fourteen, he and his friends saw [Dragonheart](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dragonheart) in the cinema.

By now Nick knew boys weren’t supposed to cry, even if Aunt Marie said it was okay, but no amount of social expectations could stop him from breaking down sobbing at the end of the movie. It was supposed to be a happy ending—it kinda-sorta- _was,_ Draco got to go and be a star just like he wanted—but it was so unfair! And so horrible! Bowen killed all the other dragons for _no reason,_ because he was _wrong_ about Draco’s heart being what made Einon evil—Draco was left _all alone,_ the very last of his kind, just because he’d tried to be _good,_ because he’d _saved someone’s life_ —and then he _died,_ and Nick felt as if it had been his own heart cut in half, it was so awful and unfair and tragic and he just couldn’t stop crying.

The only good thing was that none of his friends made fun of him, because Emily and Mason and Liam and Xiulan all cried too.

For weeks afterwards, Nick woke gasping from nightmares of a dragon dying—only the dragon in his dreams looked like Shane, his old toy, black and beautiful with feathered wings.

The nightmares didn’t stop until he got Shane out of the drawer he still lived in, and took him to bed like a teddy bear. It was a stupid little-kid thing to do, and Nick cringed just _thinking_ about anyone ever finding out about it, but he fell asleep with Shane’s silky feathers under his hand, and in his dream that night the dragon didn’t die.

Instead it cut its heart into two pieces, and put one glowing, beating half in Nick’s chest, where it blazed like a star.

*

_(When Nick was fifteen, Sean presided over Adalind’s Initiation into his coven._

_His Sangvaliers and Dévoué stood guard in the woods, keeping watch for anyone foolish or unlucky enough to stumble across the ritual. By ancient law, only Hexenbiests and Anunnaki were permitted to know anything about this night; anyone else, human or Wesen, who caught so much as a glimpse of what they did here would die. Hexenbiests were raised with stories warning of the tragedies that had befallen careless ancestors; told how many a young witch had been compelled to slit the throat of her lover because the man or woman—Kehrseite or Wesen—had followed her out into the night, and seen secrets only the grave could keep._

_It was the dark of the moon; the sky was cloudless and clear, pricked by stars like glowing drops of divine blood, but the moon had turned its face away. Even it was not allowed to watch this; only now, when there was neither sun nor moon to spy, could they perform the ritual._

_The six Hexenbiests of the coven stood in a circle in the dark, Catherine with a circlet of iron and bronze and fingerbones resting on her brow, Sean needing no crown but his own horns. Every one of them stood fully woged, and they shone like nightmares in the starlight and shadows._

_And then Adalind stepped out of the night._

_Sean had closed his eyes so he wouldn’t see her coming—he saw better in the dark than humans did by the noon sun—but he heard her bare feet on the grass, and knew when she had reached the edge of the circle, when he was allowed to open his eyes and see her._

_She took his breath away._

_Her hair held its own light, a silver-snow aurora falling down her back and around her midnight shoulders, leading the eye into her glittering black skin. The jewels around her eyes fractured the starlight, making her eyes seem even darker, deeper, voids even a Prince could drown in. Like her fellow Hexenbiests, she wore nothing but a belt of pearls and the skulls of small animals—every one of them killed and skinned and carved with secret runes by her own hands in the years since her thirteenth birthday—around her waist. An empty knife-sheath hung on her left hip, waiting._

_She looked like a demon goddess, and bore herself like one._

_When she stepped into the circle, Catherine cast out her power, and flames that burned black and silver and green leapt out of the earth, enclosing the eight of them in together._

_Sean wore nothing but his wings and his gloire as he held out a hand to the coven’s First Daughter._

_Adalind smiled as she took it, letting him lead her into the centre of the circle_ _._

_A Hexenbiest came into their powers on their thirteenth birthday. But they could not unlock their full strength without undergoing—and surviving—the Initiation ritual at nineteen. If they did, they were adults in the eyes of the Wesen world. If they didn’t…_

_Sean had no intention of letting Adalind be one of those who didn’t survive._

_“Who comes before our coven?” Catherine asked, loud enough to cut across the sound of the roaring flames, when Sean came to stand beside her and Adalind stood alone._

_“A Daughter,” Adalind replied, “who would be your Sister.”_

_“By what path did you come?”_

_“The path through the shadows,” Adalind answered. “The path between worlds.”_

_“Were you stopped? Did you look back?”_

_“I was not stopped, and I did not look back.”_

_It was Sean’s turn, and he spoke with the Behfel. “ <Do you belong to the sun,_ _or to the moon? >”_

_“I am a daughter of Lilith,” Adalind said. “I belong to no one but myself.”_

_“What do you bring with you?” Catherine asked._

_Adalind touched the gems around her void-black eyes. “I bring eyes that have looked into the Abyss without being blinded.” She touched her lips. “I bring a mouth that has spoken the thirteen names of Night, and has not been struck mute.” Her fingertips brushed the skulls at her waist, then held out her hands. “I bring deaths dealt for knowledge and power, and the hands that never faltered as they killed.”_

_The flames grew higher as she spoke, until they reached higher than Sean’s horns. When she finished, he spread his wings wide, making himself a dark shadow back-lit by the eerie fire. “ <I say these are offerings without peer,>” he said. “<What say you, High Priestess?>”_

_“I say a Daughter with the eyes to see, and the lips to speak, and the hands to kill for power is a worthy initiate,” Catherine answered. “Son of Tiamat, will you bring her into the Night?”_

_Sean smiled, and held his hands out to Adalind. “ <I will.>”_

_“Daughter of Lilith, will you go into the Night?”_

_Adalind walked forward, and clasped Sean’s wrists fearlessly, with a fierce, opalescent smile. “I will.”_

_The moment the words left her mouth, Sean pulled her against him, wrapped his arms around her, and launched them both into the sky._

_She didn’t scream, not even as the coven’s fire shrank below them until it looked small enough to wear as a ring upon her finger. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and only the brush of her claws against his skin—quickly sheathed as she regained control of them—gave away her nerves as his powerful wings carried them upwards. She weighed nothing to him in his Anunn shape, but he held her close and careful, shielding her as much as he could from the wind._

_When his bones told him they’d reached the right height, he stopped their ascent, beating his wings only enough to hold them steady. This kind of hovering in place was infinitely more difficult than just about any other kind of flight, but mastering it was just one of the many ways he’d fought to prove his worth to his clan, to make them take him seriously despite his youth._

_It hadn’t worked, but he was still one of the family’s best fliers. And he was glad of it now, as he pushed Adalind’s softly glowing hair away from her face so he could press his lips against her ear to be heard over the wind. “You should see the view,” he said. “The city is all jewels and starlight from up here.”_

_She looked him in the face, and smiled. “I like the view I’ve got just fine.”_

_He was Anunn: he could hear her without difficulty, and was suddenly conscious of the inhuman silkiness of her skin against his, the starlight-gleam of her mouth in the light from her hair. He’d noticed and revelled in both on their way up, but in a hedonistic, animal way; now he noticed as a male. “Are you cold?” he asked instead of responding._

_“No.” Carefully, she unhooked one arm from around his neck and placed her palm on his chest. “You’re so warm.” Her voice was marvelling, not seductive: his body temperature autonomically adapted to his surroundings, and here, up in the sky, it compensated for the chill by running at a heat that would kill a human. Adalind looked up from his chest to meet his eyes again. “My mother told me not to flirt with you,” she said. “Years ago. She said there was no point until after my Initiation.”_

_“Your mother was right,” Sean said. “Even last year, your scent was a child’s to me. I couldn’t have given you what you wanted, even if I’d wanted to try.”_

_“She mentioned that.” Silken fingertips slid up Sean’s collarbone, lightly touched the base of his throat. “And do you still not want to try?”_

_In answer, he slid a clawed hand into her shimmering hair and kissed her gleaming mouth, there in the dark sky with the stars to witness._

_That wasn’t part of the ritual._

_What was: all four of his fangs sinking into her shoulder, piercing glittering skin and hot, sweet meat, flooding his mouth with her blood. He tasted her truename in it and whispered it to her, here where no one else could hear, while the venom only he could give her raced through her veins like dark fire._

_He waited longer than was traditional, to be sure it had made its way all through her body, before he brought them back to the ground._

_“Has she her Name?” Catherine asked, as Prince and Hexenbiest alighted within the circle._

_“ <She does,>” Sean confirmed._

_“Does her blood know itself?”_

_The firelight kissed the dark jewels on Adalind’s face as she raised her hand to her chest. With one claw, she cut deep, a straight line over her heart, and the blood was almost invisible against her black skin. The smell of it filled Sean’s mouth with the memory of its taste, and he watched silently, his part in this done, as Adalind’s magic gathered her own blood into a dark red blade, sister to the knives every other member of the coven wore at their belts. It coalesced, crystallised, long and slender and deadly, and when it was done she grasped the hilt and held it out to her mother in answer to her question._

_Catherine nodded, solemn. “Then go Named and Known into the Dark, daughter of Lilith, and bring back your power.”_

_Adalind closed her eyes, reversing her grip on the dagger so it pointed towards herself,_ _and took hold of the hilt with both hands._

_And drove the blade into her heart._

_She didn’t shame herself—or her bloodline—by crying out, although Sean heard the hurt hitch of her breath as the knife sank in. She managed to go down on one knee, with the last of her strength; so that when she fell, tipping sideways onto the grass, it wasn’t so far, nor so ungraceful as a complete collapse would have been._

_She died, and her body unwoged: Sean and the coven held themselves silent and still as her hair darkened to blonde, her beautiful black skin bleeding out its darkness until it was human-white. The jewels around her eyes melted away like sugar-gems; and like night driven out by dawn, the ebony drained out of her eyes, leaving them blank and blue and empty._

_They might stay that way, if she couldn’t find her way back. Sometimes initiates didn’t return; sometimes they died and stayed dead. But Adalind had her mother’s training and Sean’s venom, her knife and her Name: she was as armed and armoured as they could make her. There was nothing to do now but wait._

_It didn’t take long: Adalind gasped awake less than three minutes after breathing her last, woging instantly. She drew the knife from her chest and the wound closed as the blade left it, closed without even scarring, and she climbed to her feet triumphant, blood on her hands and her chest and her full, adult power radiating from her like heat from a black sun._

_As one, the coven threw their heads back and shrieked, primal, ululating cries of wild celebration and welcome for their newest Sister. Sean joined them with a Prince’s roar, one that would have the Kerseite looking for bears in the woods tomorrow, and Adalind laughed, fierce and fey._

_After that, the ceremony bringing her into the coven was a formality. Adalind and the other Hexenbiests sliced open their palms with their own heart-forged daggers, and one by one the coven went to her and pressed their bleeding hands to hers, mixing blood to make Adalind their Sister, each of them asking her one of the ritual questions—_

_“Will you bleed to protect your Sisters?”_

_“I will.”_

_“Will you bleed for knowledge?”_

_“I will.”_

_“Will you bleed for power?”_

_“For strength?”_

_“For victory?”_

_“For the Night?”_

_“I will.”_

_Sean went last, his palm scored open by one of his claws. “Will you bleed for your Prince?” he asked, low and husky._

_Her eyes were black, but they burned as they met his. “I will.”_

_When she came to his door later that night, he did not turn her away.)_

*

When Nick was sixteen he finally picked up the wizard book everyone was raving about,2 just to see what the big deal was.

“We can’t keep that on the shelves at work,” Marie commented when she saw him curled up with it. “They’re talking about ordering more copies.” She sat down next to him on the sofa. “D’you like it so far?”

“I like the Young Wizards series more,” Nick said honestly. Being one of the magical guardians tasked with protecting the universe was always going to be cooler than magic wands and pointy hats. “But I kind of love the idea of this whole magical world hiding just out of sight.”

He had his eyes on the page, so he didn’t see his aunt blanch.

“And Hogwarts—that’s the magic school—is kind of brilliant,” he admitted.

Aunt Marie forced a smile. “Maybe I’ll read it when you’re done,” she said.

*

 _(When Nick was seventeen, there was an outbreak of the_ [ _ Yellow Plague _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Fluvus_Pestilentia) _in Iowa._

 _It was halfway across the country from Sean’s canton: if he moved to contain it, the other Princes would think he was making a bid for territory, looking to claim more of the USA than just the West Coast. And if they thought_ _**that** , enough of them would look past their enmities with each other and band together to take him down, and he wasn’t old enough, strong enough, secure enough to fight that fight and win._

_If Nick had been just a few years older… With a Key, as a King, no Prince would dare so much as whisper disapproval of anything Sean might choose to do, never mind risk open battle with him. He could have quarantined Iowa, could have kept the plague contained, minimised the death…_

_But it didn’t matter, because Nick was still a Schlafendgrimm, and nothing could change that but time._

_Sean closed his heart and his canton. No Wesen in or out, not until the outbreak was over. No live swine—carriers of the disease—coming into his territory. He pulled the strings that needed pulling, made the calls, used the Behfel when he needed to, but it was a simple matter when enough of the right_ _[Kehrseite](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Human) _ _belonged to him, when enough of the positions of worldly power were filled by Wesen, who owed him loyalty, or his Dévoué, who owed him life. A few hours of work took care of the mundane aspects; locking his canton via more esoteric means would have to wait until he was in private. In actual fact he could have done it from anywhere within his territory, but once he started he would be vulnerable until it was done, and if there was one thing his family had taught him, it was to never let his guard down._

_His closest Sangvaliers drove him to the skyscraper-penthouse that was his personal eyrie, and the moment he opened the door, he knew Adalind wasn’t there._

_Her absence was a frustrating disappointment, but she wasn’t obliged to be available to him every moment. She kept clothes here, and slept in his bed more often than not, but the two of them were neither exclusive nor official: she had her own home and occasionally retreated there. He considered driving—or flying—over, but rejected the thought, shrugging out of his coat and tie and pouring himself a glass of something older than he was instead._

_“Where do you want us?” Meisner asked. The dark-haired, German human looked to be in his early thirties, but as Sean’s Sangpremier—the highest-ranked of the Prince’s Sangvaliers, the man who stood at Sean’s left hand—his true age was more than twice that._

_“Roof, doors, every avenue to this floor, the lobby. The usual.” Sean threw back the last of his drink and set the cut-glass tumbler aside. “Do I really need to tell you how to do your job?”_

_“After forty years? No.” Meisner grinned. “But you Princes always feel better when you think you’re in charge.”_

_Sean barked a short laugh. “You’re not wrong_ _._ _” Giving even so small and simple a set of orders settled him a little._

_“I never am.” The Sangpremier retreated. “I’ll be right outside the door.”_

_When he was alone, Sean closed his eyes and reached for the land._

_He knew older Princes who performed elaborate, overly-complicated rituals for this, Princes who insisted that the ancient superstitions were a vital part of the process. They carved grottos out of the bedrock of their cantons, lit candles and made sacrifices, painted themselves in cuneiform and chanted in long-dead tongues to implore the land to hear them—and to answer. But Sean had learned a long time ago that such things were just crutches. Standing barefoot on earth and grass made it easier, but it wasn’t necessary. All that was needed was will, and focus, and a solid claim on the territory you wished to command._

_The awareness came in a rush, an electric current suddenly made whole and complete and lighting up, and Sean let himself woge with the heavy, heady bliss of it, revelling in the health and strength of his canton that flooded through his veins, made his wings shudder with pleasure. Here, like this, he could sense every inch of the territory he claimed, and that claimed him: from Washington’s rainforests to California’s redwoods, the sizzling electric dazzle of Silicon Valley to the wine-rich tang of Salem, the bioluminescent tides of Tomales Bay to the volcanoes of the Cascade Range. He felt the easy joy of otters playing and the secret calm of lynxes padding on soft paws, the sweet bright glitter of hummingbirds moving from flower to flower and the clever quickness of racoons breaking into trashcans, the graceful ballet of tarantulas spinning their webs and the swoop-and-snatch of spotted bats feeding on careless moths. He tasted the power grids and the rivers, the roads and the wildflowers, the cities beating to the pulse of his heart and the cinnamon-spice deserts dancing with hidden life. The threads tying his canton’s Wesen to him hummed like plucked harp strings, singing to him, and they were as healthy and strong as the land._

_He searched for illness, and found no Yellow Plague. He searched for intruders, for Wesen who did not belong to him, and found none of those, either._

_When he was certain, he ordered his canton to close its borders._

_And because he was its Prince, and a good one, it obeyed._

_A portcullis slamming down. A vault door crashing shut. A Prince’s wings wrapping around their mate’s heart, feathers turned to lonsdaleite 3 and teeth bared in a snarl_ _._ _A wall of briar roses enclosing the West Coast like Sleeping Beauty’s castle, blooms and thorns woven into an impenetrable barrier—but these roses are of vicious crystal, glass petals sharper than swords, a Prince’s venom dripping from every thorn._

 _Kehrseite would not see or touch it, but they would feel it, a psychic compulsion to_ _**stay away** , retreat, turn back from whence they came; if they pushed through the fear and dread and crippling nausea, if they ignored the land’s rejection and a Prince’s command and their own instincts, the wall’s razored leaves would slice their minds to bloody ribbons if they tried to force their way through._

_Wesen would see it and touch it and know it for what it was, and never go near._

_Another Prince…could tear their way through, perhaps. Sean was so young, still, weaker than his older kin: his wall might hold, or it might fall, depending on which Anunnaku was on the other side of it, and how badly they wanted in._

_But it wasn’t other Anunnaki he was concerned about just now, and Sean sighed quietly as his wards solidified, his will made manifest. He gently disentangled himself from his land, returning his awareness to his body, and opened his eyes._

_This wall of his apartment was all windows, and the view of his canton’s capital was spectacular, a balm to his drained exhaustion._

_And then came the knock on the door._

_His Sangvaliers and Dévoué both knew he didn’t appreciate company after communing with his canton; it left him tired and weakened and his nerves scraped raw. Which meant it must be urgent, because they would have turned away anything that wasn’t._

_“What?”_

_It was Sebastien who entered: Nick would have recognised him instantly, because nothing about the human had changed since that night at the airstrip. The intervening years hadn’t touched him any more than they had Meisner. “I’m sorry, sire, but it’s about Miss Schade.”_

_Adalind. “What about her?”_

_Sebastien was pale. “She’s left the canton, sire. About thirty minutes ago.”_

_For a moment, Sean was actually lost for words, unable to comprehend what he’d just been told: Adalind was neither his mate nor his official consort, and Hexenbiests occupied a unique place in any court hierarchy—but still, for her to have simply_ _**left** , without warning or permission—and today of all days, when she _ _**knew** _ _he was closing the borders—_

_He let a low growl escape him as he shifted back to human form. “Get out,” he snapped at the Dévoué, and was already dialling Adalind’s number as Sebastien closed the door behind him._

_“Prince,” Adalind answered calmly._

_Sean could hear the sound of a car engine through the phone: she was driving. “What are you doing?” he demanded._

_“What you can’t,” she said simply._

_Her even tone scraped at his temper. “What does that mean?” he half-snarled._

_“This isn’t the 14_ _th_ _century any more, Your Highness,” she said tartly. “We have a cure for the Yellow Plague now. I’m going to Iowa, and I’m going to make it for them.”_

_When he didn’t answer, her voice gentled. “You can’t be seen to act outside your territory without the other paranoid Royals deciding you’re a threat. I can.”_

_Sean finally found his voice. “You’re a member of my court. My coven. I_ _**initiated** _ _you.”_

 _He could all but hear her roll her eyes at him. “Please. Every Hexenbiest who’s come of age since you came to this_ _**country** _ _was initiated by you. You’re the only Prince around, remember? There’s nowhere else to get the venom, unless you feel like taking a trip to Europe or South America. And most of those pretty girls you bit didn’t stick around in your territory, did they?”_

_“I think your mother may have had something to do with that,” Sean said dryly, and was rewarded with Adalind’s laugh._

_“I can neither confirm nor deny any such thing,” she said cheerfully._

_“Do your classmates realise you’re going to be their valedictorian?” he asked, wry. She’d taken to law school like a fish to water, with Sean’s encouragement. A Prince always had uses for a good lawyer._

_“If they haven’t yet, they will soon.” Some of the brightness left her voice, and he heard her fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “I’m a Hexenbiest, Sean. We do plenty that’s not at the command of our Princes. Yes, I’m sure some people will suspect, but you have plausible deniability: I’m not one of your Sangvaliers or your consort. We’re not even officially dating. I acted on my own, not on your orders.”_

_“Is that why you’re doing this?” Sean stood by the wall of glass, looked down at the city lights without truly seeing them. “Because you want us to formalise our relationship? I know you don’t give a damn about sick Wesen in Iowa, Adalind.”_

_“I might,” Adalind said airily. “I could secretly be a bleeding heart, tormented by the thought of those poor, innocent souls and their suffering. Maybe it’s been a lifelong dream of mine to be Florence Nightingale.”_

_Sean huffed a low, rough laugh. “Next you’ll be telling me that_ [ _ Bauerschwein _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Bauerschwein) _can fly.”_

_He heard her smile in her voice. “Think about it, Prince.” And she cut the call.)_

*

When Nick was eighteen, his aunt told him that she couldn’t afford to send him to college.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” she said, sitting across from him at the kitchen table. “There’s just no way.”

Nick swallowed around the lump in his throat; it settled in the pit of his stomach like a ball of lead. “There’s student loans—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said firmly. “You’ll be paying it off for the rest of your life, Nick—and I think you’ll make a great police officer, but it’s not a job that pays well. Loans like that could cripple you. And when you don’t need a degree for the police academy…”

She trailed off meaningfully.

“Yeah, I know.” He couldn’t meet her eyes. “I know.” He made himself smile. “It’s fine. You’re right, I don’t need a Criminal Justice degree to apply for the academy. It was a stupid idea anyway.”

“Not stupid,” Marie said quickly. “Just…it’s not the easiest route to get you what you want.”

Nick nodded and smiled and made all the right noises, but it ached. He’d wanted that Criminal Justice degree; had spent a year carefully investigating his options, looking at different schools, trying to decide if he wanted to go across the country or stay closer to home. He wanted to be a cop; he’d wanted to help people for as long as he could remember. But he wanted to be a _good_ cop, and you didn’t need a degree for that—loads of good officers never went to college—but it helped.

And maybe he’d wanted the College Experience; moving out, living in a dorm, meeting new people. Maybe he’d been looking forward to a taste of the kind of freedom he’d never have under Aunt Marie’s watchful eye, and certainly wouldn’t find on the force. Maybe he’d wanted to be a little wild, just for a little while.

But his aunt was right. She generally was. The responsible thing to do would be heading straight to the academy, without the tangle of loans and debts like a noose around his neck, without wasting time he didn’t need to spend.

It made sense.

Two days after he withdrew his college applications, he came downstairs for breakfast to find Marie standing like a statue in the hallway, a bundle of mail in one hand and a single thick envelope in the other. She was staring at the latter as if she could set it on fire with her eyes.

“Aunt Marie?” Concerned, Nick jumped down the last three steps. “Is everything okay?”

She looked up at him. For a second, he thought she was going to start yelling, until without a word, she shoved the envelope into his hands and stormed off to the kitchen.

Confused as hell, Nick turned over the letter. When he saw the official logo on the envelope, his heart started beating faster, and he tore it open carefully, confusion and dread and anticipation all battling for control of his shaking hands.

It was from UCI—the University of California, at Irvine, his first-choice college and the one he’d set his heart on: they had one of the best Criminal Justice degrees in the country, and they’d been so much closer than his other options, the only one on the West Coast. But why on earth were they writing to him now?

He stood in the hallway reading, the confusion slowly transforming into disbelief, disbelief metamorphosising into giddy delight as he took in what the letter said. He read through it twice, barely able to believe it.

“Aunt Marie!” He’d already forgotten her strange reaction to the letter; he burst into the kitchen, hardly able to contain himself. “It’s UCI—they’re offering me a full scholarship! They want to cover _everything_ —school, housing, living expenses—there’s even something about paying for a _car!_ Can you believe it?!”

His aunt was cutting up fruit for breakfast; her carving knife thudded into the chopping board as she made quick, angry strokes through a watermelon. “And how did you qualify for a scholarship you never applied for?” she asked, her voice tight.

Nick frowned at her, confused by the hard line of her shoulders and grim set of her face. “They said my test scores were flagged on a national level as someone who’d do well in law enforcement. There’s some initiative to get more students into law and order careers… What’s wrong? Are you—why are you mad about this?”

“Because these things always have strings attached,” she snapped. “It’s dangerous to owe people, Nick. You never know what they’re going to ask for in return.”

“It’s not like I’m asking the military to put me through school,” Nick said, trying not to become defensive. “They’re not going to send me to _war_ or something after.”

His aunt made a frustrated noise that was almost a snarl. “There are wars and there are _wars,”_ she said darkly.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Nick said, keeping a tight lid on his own growing frustration. He wasn’t going to lose his temper, not with the woman who’d taken him in and raised him and wanted the best for him, even if they had different ideas about what that meant. He knew she loved him, and he loved her, and he’d never been one of those kids who fought with their parents. He wasn’t going to start now. “I’ll look into it, but if this scholarship is for real, then I’m probably going to take it. I’d really like for you to be happy for me, but if you can’t be, then I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree on this one.”

When she said nothing—when she didn’t even look at him—he swallowed words he’d only regret later and grabbed his bag. “I’ll see you after school,” he said, pushing the envelope into his backpack.

Marie looked up then. “What about breakfast?”

His stomach churning with confusion and anger and hurt, Nick just shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

He counted it a win that he managed not to slam the front door behind him.

*

_(When Nick was nineteen, Sean gave Marie permission to leave._

_He’d moved his court to Irvine when Nick headed there for college; the UCI campus was well within his territory, and the Wesen among the students and faculty all knew who Nick was and how much their Prince valued him, but even so Sean had found himself unwilling to let his Schlafendgrimm go so far out of his direct sight._

_There was nothing strange about that. Nick could go undergo the Augenöffnung any day now; his powers might awaken at any moment. It was only natural that Sean should want to be close by when that happened._

_His aunt didn’t feel the same way._

_“The whole reason I brought you here was so you would be there for Nick when the Augenöffnung starts,” Sean growled._

_“And I will be,” Marie insisted. “I’ll feel it when it’s coming, and when I do I’ll come back. But it could take years. There’s no reason for me to stay here until it does!”_

_“Years?” Sean echoed. His eyes narrowed. “He’s nineteen. Grimms get their powers when they reach adulthood.”_

_“Yes, but not on the stroke of midnight on their eighteenth birthday!” Marie snapped. “Almost none of us go through the Augenöffnung until we’re in our twenties. I don’t want to sit around here waiting for that. I want my life back!”_

_Sean considered her. If he didn’t let her go, she might try to leave anyway, and hurt some of his people in the process—or she might be angry enough to lash out at the local Wesen even if she didn’t make a run for the border. But if she left… “And what happens to Nick if you die?” he asked bluntly. “Who’ll guide him through it then?”_

_“Don’t pretend like you care,” Marie said bitterly. “You’ll do it yourself, or find some other Grimm to play your puppet. You’ve done such a fine job pruning my nephew into the shape you wanted; don’t act like you want me messing it up for you now.”_

_That actually_ _**was** _ _one of Sean’s concerns: that Marie might poison Nick against Wesen, and against Sean in particular, during his Augenöffnung, when he was most likely to believe anything she told him about the strange new things he could see and sense. It was a gamble Sean didn’t like taking, but there were things he would never know about being a Grimm, things he couldn’t teach Nick no matter how much he wanted to. Things Nick would need another Grimm for._

_And wouldn’t it be better if those lessons came from someone Nick knew, rather than any other Grimm Sean might find, who would be a stranger to him?_

_“I never ‘pruned’ Nicholas,” Sean said. “All I did was gag your hate. Everything he’s grown to be, he’s learned on his own.”_

_It was impossible not to be proud of that._

_“Whatever you say, majesty.” Marie shrugged insolently. “But I’m not going to die. I just want to be alive again.”_

_“I’m not giving you back your Grimm hoard,” Sean warned her. “Those things are for Nick now.”_

_“And I wasn’t asking for them,” Marie said. “I just want_ _**out.”** _

_He should kill her. That would have been the right thing, the_ _**correct** _ _thing. She would return to being an active Grimm again the moment she crossed his borders; by letting her go, he was sentencing to death all the Wesen she would hunt._

_They were not his people. But in another life, they could have been. In another mortal lifetime, they might yet be._

_Nick was his Schlafendgrimm_ _**now** , and he would need his aunt._

_“Write a letter,” Sean said finally. “In case you don’t come back.” He turned away from her. “Make it a good one.”_

_Sebastien brought it to him when she was done, while Miesner escorted her to the border: a heavy envelope thick with pages, sealed with green wax._

_“Put it in the vault,” Sean ordered, handing it back._

_Sebastien took it carefully. “Yes, sire.”)_

*

When Nick was twenty, he graduated not at, but near the top of his class, a whole year early. He felt ridiculous in his robe and the stupid hat, but he couldn’t stop grinning the whole way through the graduation ceremony.

He’d wanted to prove to UCI that they’d been right to take him on, and he did. He _did_.

He saw his aunt in the crowd as he crossed the stage to accept his degree; he thought it might be the first time he’d ever seen Marie in a dress. Her smile was a little tight, but she was clapping, and he waved, grateful that she’d come, that he had family here today. He hadn’t been sure she would accept, when he sent the invitation.

But she said congratulations, after, and hugged him, and insisted on taking him to dinner to celebrate.

He thought he saw a tall, dark-haired man walking away as the ceremony broke up, and had no idea why the sight sent such a frission through him.

*

_(When Nick was twenty-one and enrolled at Oregon’s police academy, Sean did…something similar._

_“A_ _**police captain** _ _?” Catherine asked. “You’re not serious.”_

_Miesner spoke up, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall. “It’s not a bad plan. Captain is a high enough rank for influence, low enough to escape the worst of the politics. And it’ll give him legitimate, direct access to the Grimm.”_

_“Schlafendgrimm,” Adalind corrected. Her mother was present as High Priestess of Sean’s coven; Miesner was his Sangpremier. But Adalind wore Sean’s signet on the thumb of her left hand: a golden ring set with an emerald, the jewel carved with the dragon-and-lotus that was his sign, that marked her as his leman 4; lover, advisor, empowered to speak with his voice. It wasn’t the consort’s mark she wanted—her neck was smooth, unscarred by his claiming bite—but it was more than he’d ever given anyone before. “He’s not a Grimm yet.”_

_“He’s a Key, maybe the only one in the world, and he needs protecting,” Miesner said. “We intercepted two agents of Prince Ysela just last month. It’s been fourteen years since Sean banned Reapers from his territory, and we_ _**still** _ _always have a couple sniffing ’round the borders. The boy’s not safe. But keeping him close to Sean will keep him a hell of a lot safer.”_

_“But still. A police captain?” Catherine’s mouth twisted with ostentatious distaste. “You’ll be living as a_ _**Kehrseite** _ _. You’ll be working a nine-to-five! How will you attend to your court? Your canton?”_

_Sean had been watching the flames in the grate, a glass of Chateau d’Yquem clasped forgotten in his hand, but at that he looked up. The gold in his eyes made the fire look dim. “Are you saying that I haven’t thought this through?” he asked, in a voice like smoke and silk. “Because I’m sure you’re not suggesting that I would ever knowingly act against the best interests of my canton.”_

_“I wouldn’t answer that,” Miesner said helpfully. Catherine gave him a haughty look._

_“There are plenty of Wesen in the police force,” Adalind said carefully, after the silence stretched. “It wouldn’t be hard to have them keep an eye on Nick.”_

_“You could even send in some of your Sangvaliers to play cops and robbers, if you so desired,” Catherine added, pointedly ignoring Miesner._

_“Only if it was playing he wanted,” Miesner said, ignoring her ignoring him. “Becoming police officers takes training the Sangvaliers don’t have. We don’t know the rules and regulations, the laws, the protocols—none of us would make it a week on the job.”_

_“But Sean doesn’t know those things either!” Adalind protested. “Do you?” she asked him._

_“I know a little,” the Prince said. He knew a lot: he’d studied the matter since he discovered his Schalfendgrimm had his heart set on the police academy. He’d wanted to know what it was that drew Nick, why he wanted it—whether it would make his life easier or harder when he came into his powers. “And I’ll learn the rest. I have until Nicholas graduates.” He turned his head, piercing Catherine with his woged eyes. “And I’ll make sure my court and canton don’t suffer for it.”_

_And that was the end of it.)_

*

When Nick was twenty-two, he met Sean Renard for the first time.

Nick was fresh from the academy, conscious of the weight of the gun at his hip and the responsibility woven into his uniform—and yet the moment he entered his newly-assigned precinct, he felt so restless he could hardly stand it. He had to force himself to keep pace with the training officer showing him—and the three other rookies—around instead of running on ahead of her, had to make himself take note as she pointed out interview rooms and the evidence locker and the coffee machines, instead of listening to the electricity racing under his skin, giving in to the tidal pull drawing him deeper into the building like a wave being drawn by the moon. He felt as though he would crash and break apart into surf and seafoam if he wasn’t allowed to _move;_ something like anticipation and something like impatience, like craving, like iron filings straining towards a magnet.

He’d never felt anything like it before, and he refused to give into it, taking careful, measured steps and careful, measured breaths and focussing on memorising the precinct’s layout, even as the sensation grew worse by the minute.

What was wrong with him? Was this nerves? Was he just eager to get started? Maybe he was coming down with something; he never got sick, but there was a first time for everything, and his ears were starting to ring—the world was starting to spin—was he about to faint—?

And the compass inside him suddenly snapped to its own personal North.

He was already turning to look in that direction when their training officer said, “Captain? These are the new recruits.”

Which was why he saw that the captain was already looking their way.

Looking at _him_.

 _His eyes are like mine,_ Nick thought, and had no idea where the thought had come from.

The world had stopped spinning, because the world didn’t exist any more: everything had narrowed down to a razor-sharp point, and the tip of that point was the man rising from behind the captain’s desk, white and dark-haired and almost unreasonably tall, elegantly handsome and the picture-perfect embodiment of authority.

And Nick wanted to—Nick wanted— No, not want, he _needed_ —

…He had no idea what he needed. Something. Now. _Please_.

Nick and the others stood just outside the captain’s office; Officer Rodriguez was holding the door open, stepped slightly to one side so the captain could see the newbies beyond her. But he didn’t seem any more able to look away from Nick than Nick could look away from him, and behind him the window overlooking the park across the street rattled— _all_ the exterior windows rattled, every one in the building as the calm day outside suddenly turned windy; Nick caught glimpses in the corner of his vision of tree silhouettes bending, bowing under the sudden gale like courtiers to a king. And the wind must have blown away the clouds because the grey day brightened, gilded beams pouring through the glass, back-lighting the captain, almost seeming to crown him—

And in that light Nick’s vision swam, so that for a second, it almost looked as if the captain had black wings growing from his back—

_What’s wrong with me?_

—and eyes that burned gold, molten gold that seemed to pour over and sheathe Nick’s bones the way some people dipped roses in precious metals—

_If I’m sick, why does it feel so good?_

The wind outside grew louder as the captain moved from the desk, walking towards the small group—towards _Nick_. He was speaking and Nick couldn’t hear him over the singing-ringing in his ears and knew he didn’t need to, knew it didn’t matter because the man hadn’t looked away from him for an instant, and the sunny storm outside was good, people were looking bemusedly or worriedly at the windows instead of at whatever this was, and every step the captain took made the ringing louder, and louder, until Nick could almost hear words in it—

_Rian—_

_Maledre—_

_Seáhnrizai—_

_Aaru—_

_Kyn’astor—_

_Dubhslainé—_

_Idrisel—_

_LúIänsi—_

And behind all the others, a whisper rising to a roar:

_**NARAM-NIKÓLAOS!** _

Nick swayed.

When his balance settled, the voices were gone, and the captain was standing directly in front of him, hand extended. He was just a man, with no wings, his eyes green instead of gold—even if the pupils were dilated, dark and intent and locked on Nick.

“Captain Sean Renard,” he said. “You must be Burkhardt.”

“Sir,” Nick managed. He clasped Renard’s hand.

He must not have had his balance back after all, because he could have sworn the earth literally shook—just a little—when they touched.

 _North._ Just like that, Nick felt fine—better than fine; relaxed, calm, at ease. Happy, even, and why shouldn’t he be, when his captain gave him a smile that was equal parts welcome and approval?

“I’ve seen your file,” Renard said, “and I’m impressed. Welcome to the precinct, Officer. We’re glad to have you.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m glad to be here.” Outside, the raging wind stilled; the bright sunlight streaming through the windows dimmed to less dazzling levels.

A few local reports that evening would make mention of a tiny, inexplicable earth-tremor registered that day. But Nick had been raised without television and never gotten into the habit of watching it on his own, and he never heard them.

*

_(When Nick was twenty-three, Adalind blind-sided Sean._

_They were in one of Portland’s most exclusive restaurants. Sean had woken that morning without patience for the stink of Kehrseite, and so he and Adalind were the only ones dining: the restaurant had been closed to the public for the evening at his command. A handful of his Sangvaliers stood watch outside, with Miesner and Valerio, a_ [ _ Manticore _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Manticore) _, standing against the wall inside the dining room itself—more for appearance’s sake than anything, but a Prince must have his retinue._

_Sean had found himself telling Adalind how Nick was doing in his new career, anecdotes that had been reported to him and incidents that he’d witnessed for himself. His sour mood sweetened over the course of the meal, the poor temper he’d woken with that morning dissolving into fondness and amusement and pride as he recounted some of Nick’s experiences in the city whose unofficial motto was ‘Keep Portland Weird’: responding to a call of shoplifting to find the perpetrator was a goat chewing down candy; arresting a man in a Deadpool costume for a DUI; standing by as security when a coven of Kehrseite witches decided to have a paddleboarding event on Halloween, complete with cloaks and pointy hats. He was describing the confusion—and the hilarity of reading the incident reports afterwards—that had surrounded a car accident where one vehicle had been full of people dressed– and made-up as zombies, when the staff came to clear away their dinner plates._

_“Sounds like he’s settling in just fine,” Adalind said, toying with the stem of her glass. The soft lighting gleamed on her fingernails, painted the same garnet-red as her lipstick. “I suppose a career in the police force is a good place for a Grimm.”_

_“It will make some things easier for him,” Sean allowed. “It might complicate a few others. But he can always resign if it becomes a problem. Thank you,” he added, accepting the dessert menu from one of the well-trained wait staff._

_Adalind took her own proffered menu. “Speaking of desserts, does your little Schlafendgrimm look as delicious in uniform as I imagine?”_

_“How should I know what you’re imagining?” Sean said, suddenly curt._

_Adalind flicked her gaze to him over the top of her menu, her bloody red mouth curved into a wicked smirk. “Well, that answers my next question.”_

_“Which is?”_

_Adalind’s face morphed into a show of playfully false sympathy. “Is it_ _**very** _ _hard not to drag him into your office and bend him over your desk?”_

 _The image struck him like a knife still hot from the forge, bright and sharp and molten: Nick laid out and spread out on Sean’s desk at the precinct, trousers around his ankles and biting on his wrist to keep himself quiet as Sean eats him out, prehensile tongue lapping deep, honey-thick venom spilling over Sean’s lips and licked into Nick, pushed into his hole until he’s dripping, until he’s keening, until he’s slick and wet enough to take Sean’s cock, the office blinds all closed so Sean can keep this sight to himself, greedy and insatiate, sheathing himself to the hilt in that tight, beautiful body over and over, Nick’s wrists bound behind his back now with Sean’s scarlet tie, Sean’s hand over his mouth to muffle his moans, Sean’s fangs dragging along Nick’s jaw and down the mesmerising curve of his throat, to nuzzle, and lick, and_ _**bite** _ _—_

_“No,” Sean said evenly. He turned the page of his menu. “I can’t say it’s been a struggle.”_

_“ **I’d**_ _be struggling, if it was me,” Adalind said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was Dévoué.”_

_“He’s a Key,” Sean said, a little of his impatience making it into his tone. “That makes him a throwback. Genetically, he’s closer to the originals than to his parents. So yes, he’s pretty. It’s hardly his most important feature.”_

_Adalind hummed, non-committal. “Were the originals bred for looks, then?”_

_“I don’t know, Adalind,” Sean snapped. “I wasn’t there.”_

_Another woman would have quailed under a Prince’s displeasure; Adalind merely raised her eyebrows, eloquent and unimpressed._

_With a surprising effort, Sean regained control of himself. “My guess would be that they were, yes. The stories I was told as a child described them as beautiful, and Anunnaki have always considered eugenics an art-form. It would have been unlike my ancestors to neglect a detail as visibly obvious as aesthetics.”_

_“Beauty standards change,” Adalind commented. “What was considered beautiful ten thousand years ago wouldn’t be today.”_

_“If you’re human, maybe,” Sean said. “A tiger looks for the same thing in a mate that his ancestors did ten millennia ago. The same holds true for my kin; what my ancestors found attractive, so do I. Humans might train themselves to find different things beautiful in different centuries, but Anunnaki don’t bother.”_

_“So you_ _**do** _ _find him attractive,” the Hexenbiest said, a little gleefully._

_Sean rolled his eyes. “I’m not_ _**blind**.”_

_Adalind laughed, delighted._

_The waiter came for their dessert orders: La Madeline Au Truffe for Sean, the house’s decadent cheesecake for Adalind, more wine for them both._

_“I hope you know I won’t mind sharing,” Adalind said, when the waiter retreated again. “Especially if you share **him**.”_

_Again that flash of searing heat, like flames licking the underside of his skin, as he pictured it before he could stop himself; Nick and Adalind both in his bed, the sculpted maleness of a Grimm entwined with a Hexenbiest’s deceptive softness. Adalind drawing Nick into a hungry, filthy kiss as Sean opened him up, getting him stretched and slick and watching Adalind lap Nick’s moans right out of his mouth, guiding his hand to her breast, Sean’s lips at Nick’s ear telling him how to please her. Pushing him into her, clawed hands on Nick’s hips guiding him irresistibly in and Adalind’s ankles hooked around Nick’s, holding him open for Sean, for Sean to press against his back and slide into him, slow and inexorable and deep, savouring every inch as Nick shakes and shakes and shakes. The Grimm caught between the two Wesen, caught in the pleasure and at their mercy, helpless, unable to thrust, to move, only_ _**be** _ _moved, Sean’s hands on his hips pulling him back and pushing him in, fucking him and Adalind through him—_

_Would Nick see the beauty in Adalind’s true form? Would he find her glittering skin as intoxicatingly silken as Sean did; would he shudder under her claws, moan into her mother-of-pearl mouth, lose himself in the velvet voids of her eyes? Or would he be repulsed, too human to appreciate someone who was not?_

_And what would he think of Sean? He’d called the Prince’s wings ‘cool’, once, as a child. What would he think as a Grimm?_

_What would he think as a man?_

_“Or are you going to be greedy and keep him all to yourself?”_

_Sean dragged his thoughts back to the present. “I’m not going to ‘keep’ him. Who he sleeps with will be his own business. I want him as a knight of my court, not a plaything.”_

_Adalind frowned. “I’m glad to hear it, since a toy wouldn’t be any use to the canton. But everyone knows that Princes sleep with their Grimms. It’s good for both of you. It’s why Grimms_ _**exist** , for God’s sake.” _

_“That doesn’t make it mandatory,” Sean said. “And why in the Mother’s name do you care whether I take a Grimm to bed, anyway?”_

_“Because it’s good for you,” Adalind repeated. “And what’s good for you is good for your canton.” She gave him a sharp, searching look. “Please tell me you’re at least planning on bonding with him?”_

_“What is it you really want to ask, Adalind?” Sean snapped. “I know you don’t care about Nick one way or the other; this isn’t about him. You want something and you’re trying to circle around to it, but I don’t have the patience tonight. Spit it out.”_

_Her eyes slid to black, partially woging as she gave an affronted, angry hiss._

_Sean let his own eyes burn gold and_ _**snarled**._

_Adalind jerked back in her chair, her eyes blinking back to blue, shocked and shaken._

_Sean watched her, waiting. He let his own eyes stay woged, felt his fangs throb with hot, angry venom._

_Adalind took a deep breath. “I want to stop taking the hedelmätöntrank.”_

_Sean stared at her for a long moment, holding himself very still. Then: “Get out,” he ordered, without looking away from Adalind._

_In the corner of his vision, he saw Miesner and Valerio exchange glances, but they left the room without a word._

_When they were gone, Sean said, very calmly, “Have you met a worthy sire?”_

_“What? No!” Adalind’s shock turned into a kind of outrage. “That’s what you think? That I’ve found someone I want to knock me up?”_

_“What other reason could you have for wanting to stop taking the potion that suppresses your fertility?” Sean asked coldly._

_Adalind grit her teeth and glared at him, because they both knew the reason. Sean simply had no intention of making it easy for her._

_“You know I’d support you if you decided you wanted children,” he said. “I trust your judgement in choosing a sire. I’d raise them as mine.” His tone had gentled, but he was mocking her, and they both knew it. “I’m not some hidebound Naiad, Adalind. I won’t wail and gnash my teeth and murder the sire you choose, just because I can’t give you what you want.”_

_“You don’t know that,” Adalind said through gritted teeth._

_“That I’m not a Naiad?” Sean asked, deliberately misunderstanding her. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have gills, Adalind.”_

_“You don’t know that you can’t get me pregnant!” Adalind snapped._

_Sean raised his eyebrows. “I’m a Prince,” he said, low. “We’re a sterile species.”_

_“Except with your mates.” Adalind lifted her chin. “If I stopped taking the hedelmätöntrank—”_

“— _then I would ban you from my presence,” Sean said, very, very softly, “every month, for the fertile part of your cycle. And if you tried to break that ban, my Sangvaliers would shoot you. Non-fatally, of course.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “This conversation is over.”_

_“What is it that you don’t want confirmed, Sean?” Adalind called, angry tears in her voice as he walked away, “That I’m not your mate? Or that I_ _**am** _ _?”_

_He didn’t answer.)_

*

When Nick was twenty-four, he met Juliette Silverton.

She was a witness to a hit-and-run—the one who dialled 911, and managed to get half the licence plate of the perp’s car at that, and Nick was immediately drawn to her fire. By then he’d taken statements from hundreds of witnesses to all kinds of crimes, but he’d never before met anyone with Juliette’s combination of composure and fury. She was shaken by what she’d seen, of course, but mostly she was _angry,_ angry at the callousness of the driver who’d hit the motor-cyclist without stopping, and determined to do everything she could to help the cops find and nail him.

She was a vet; she’d scrambled out of her own car and done her best to help the downed motorist until the ambulance arrived. “The basics are the same for most mammals,” she explained, a little sheepish, and it shouldn’t have been funny, but Nick was charmed all the same.

She was compassionate and clever and cool-headed in an emergency, and Nick _could not_ ask her out under these circumstances.

But they found the driver, and there was a trial—not an especially long one, but Juliette was a key witness, and as one of the responding officers Nick had to be available too. They crossed paths over it again and again during trial prep, enough that Nick learned what Juliette’s smile looked like (adorably crooked) her favourite colour (she was always wearing blue) and how she took her coffee (caffè mocha, no whip).

And then one day when he volunteered for the coffee run for the legal team, Juliette announced a need to stretch her legs and went with him. They talked about nothing in particular in the queue, though Nick’s skin crackled with awareness of the beautiful woman beside him, deliciously conscious of her presence. And she must have felt something similar, because once they placed the group order she turned to him and said, “Maybe we could just get two drinks next time.”

Her considering expression, as if she was really thinking about it, almost tripped him up; but then he saw how her eyes were laughing, and he grinned at her. “Without a full legal team counting the seconds until we get back?”

“It would be nice to linger,” she agreed. “We could _even_ talk about something other than the case.”

Nick placed a hand on his heart. “Miss _Silverton,”_ he said dramatically, playfully, “are you asking me out?”

Juliette nodded mock-solemnly. “I am indeed, officer.”

“Well, I’d be delighted to accept,” Nick said, and Juliette grinned.

They met for coffee, then lunch, then dinner. Nick kissed her for the first time in his car outside her apartment, and her mouth was so soft against his, her hand reaching up to cup his cheek as his slid carefully into her gorgeous hair.

She bit his lip, just this side of too hard, and he gasped into her mouth. When she pulled back with an unrepentant grin, he stared after her, dazed and aching.

“Don’t forget to call, Officer Burkhardt.” She kissed him quickly on the cheek and slid out of his car, turning back to wave from her building’s front door.

He waved back, mouth curving into a grin. When she was safely inside, he touched his tongue to the sweet throb in his lower lip.

“I won’t,” he murmured, smiling, and pulled away from the curb.

*

_(When Nick was twenty-five, Christmas nearly ended in a slaughter._

_The precinct’s yearly Christmas party was the closest Sean ever came to the human holiday, and he’d decided in his first year as captain that that was as close as he ever wanted to get. He wasn’t nearly old enough to remember the days when the humans had driven back the Longest Night with song and fire, gold and blood; when they had danced for the risen Holly King among the standing stones and ancient groves; when Kehrseite and Wesen had come together to feast the ending of Winter’s darkness. But he’d been told the stories, and seen the mixed reactions of his kin as some of those ancient traditions were reborn and remade by modern pagans. He upheld those traditions himself, every year; a few nights from now he would wear the crown of mistletoe and myrrh at the centre of his court’s solstice celebration, the_ kumazg še’ila _that would last from sunset to sunrise, banquet and ball and bacchanal all rolled into one. There would be light and music and fireworks, to drive away the Winter, and as High Priest and -Priestess Sean and Catherine would perform the ritual to call home the sun: they would light the bonfire of hawthorn and oak and cedar, and commit the traditional gifts for Tiamat, Mother of the Blood, to the flames. Even the Kehrseite knew Tiamat’s name, although the human myths claimed that she was dead, which was a lie: Tiamat was murdered, yes, but the phoenix-dragon goddess was only reborn stronger and greater than ever through the salt and the silver, the lapis and the lily, the pearl and the pomegranate, the flint and the flame…_

 _But there would be no Sacred Marriage. If Sean had been mated, he and his_ mulan— _his heart’s heart, his soul’s star, the one Mother-made to match and complete him—would have performed that rarest of rites together; would have been anointed and painted and bejewelled to stand as avatars for Tiamat and her lover Apsu, and come together with the whole court to witness. The ritual sex would have raised power to pour unstinting through Sean’s bond with his canton, into his land and his subjects; increasing the yield of the earth, cleansing the air and the waters, bolstering the health of Wesen and human alike. The Yellow Plague never struck a territory hallowed by a Sacred Marriage in the last lunar year; no_ [ _ Grausen _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Grausen) _were born within its borders, and_ [ _ lycanthropia _ ](https://grimm.fandom.com/wiki/Lycanthropia_\(Disease\)) _claimed no Blutbad cubs raised there; the spells of Hexenbiests were more powerful when cast in such a place, and the herbs and spices of Wesen apothecaries more potent when gathered from rite-blessed earth. The rite could end famines and break droughts, and it was one of a Prince’s most important responsibilities to perform it—but it was a Prince’s fertility that bolstered the health of their land, and as Sean had reminded Adalind years ago, Princes were sterile from birth to death._

_Unless they found their mate._

_Sean had fought hard not to think about it, but surrounded by reminders of the season, it was impossible not to wonder what it might be like to experience the Sacred Marriage for himself. The humans’ tacky tinsel brought to mind bare skin painted with ritual gold, ancient symbols and patterns that would smear and blur under Sean’s hands, that would be sweet under his lips from the honey used in the paint. His imagination replaced the reek of cheap alcohol with sandalwood incense and the rich musk of sex magic; beneath the grating Christmas carols on the radio he heard the pounding, primal rhythm of the drums that would match the pace of the ritual, heating the blood, calling on powers that were ancient when the world was new—_

_Sean took a deep breath, inhaling the hundred banal, mundane scents of the here-and-now, anchoring himself with the smell of the plastic Christmas tree and the clashing colognes and perfumes of the men and women at the party. He’d been here long enough, if he was starting to daydream about impossible rituals. He could make his farewells and retreat for the night, safe in the knowledge he wouldn’t have to do this again for another year—_

_His vision sharpened as his eyes suddenly woged without his permission, colours humans couldn’t see blossoming across his vision before he snapped his eyes tightly shut to hide their glow. His conscious mind was a few fractions of a second slower to catch and recognise and understand what his instincts had reacted to instantly, which gave him no time to escape._

_“Captain!”_

_It wasn’t Nick’s voice that made Sean whirl, eyes full of sunfire and his teeth sharp as sparks, venom molten in his mouth._

_It was—_

_It was—_

_Sean blinked and his eyes were human again, so quickly that the glimpse of gold could be written off as a trick of the light. When he smiled his teeth were small and square and blunt. “Nick.” He couldn’t make himself ask,_ enjoying yourself? _Not when—that_ smell _— “Congratulations on passing your detective’s exam.” He raised his brows in polite question. “And who’s this?”_

_He knew. He’d smelled her before; he’d caught her scent on Nick’s skin and clothes more and more often over the last year, overheard Nick use her name in conversations with Hank. But this was the first time he’d had to face her._

_“Thank you, sir,” Nick said, eyes bright. He turned to smile warmly at the woman at his side. “And this is my girlfriend Juliette.” He sounded almost giddy; his smile was almost a grin. His lips gleamed under the lights, and the sight and scent set off a grenade in Sean’s belly, hot and vicious and violent. “Who has just foolishly agreed to move in with me.”_

_That explained the giddiness, Sean thought with the tiny part of himself that was not fighting to keep from going for the woman’s throat._

_Juliette grinned at Nick. “I’m sure he’ll make me regret it,” she said, sounding certain of just the opposite. She turned to Sean and extended her hand. “Juliette Silverton. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”_

_If he touched her, he’d kill her. He would lose every semblance of control, woge, and tear her to pieces, witnesses be damned._

_Sean held his hands out of the way with an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I shouldn’t—greasy canapés, I haven’t found a napkin yet.” It was a weak excuse, but the best one he could come up with when his every instinct was roaring for blood. “Sean Renard, Nick’s—”_ Prince, _his inner voice snarled; Nick’s_ Prince, _Nick’s— “—Captain.”_

 _If he tried to say_ it’s good to meet you, _he’d choke._

_Someone had tried to smooth it down, but Nick’s hair was mussed—as if beautifully manicured fingers had been tangled in it not long ago. Sean could smell sweat and sex on them both, though they’d freshened up enough that a human wouldn’t; but Juliette’s pale skin was still flushed, and Nick’s lips were swollen, Nick’s lips were still a little slick, if Sean breathed through his mouth he’d be able to taste it on the air and he would paint the precinct’s walls with gore—_

_Because somewhere in this building—Sean could find it by the smell if he tried, if he dared—Nick had gone down on his knees and slid his girlfriend’s skirt up around her hips, and maybe he’d drawn her panties down with his teeth or just pushed them enough to one side or maybe she wasn’t wearing any at all, Sean didn’t know, only knew that Nick had put his mouth on her, and she’d had her fingers in his hair, and she’d probably bitten her lip to keep herself quiet as he kissed her and sucked her and licked her. She’d probably been dripping wet, and he’d probably had spit and slick all down his chin, and she must have been shaking, and he must have fumbled with his belt, must have moaned into her when he got a hand around his cock, thrusting into his own hand as he fucked her with his tongue. Maybe he’d even slid his fingers into her, got them good and wet while she whimpered and then wrapped them ’round himself, used her slick for lube, and that was probably how they’d both come, her with his lips around her clit and him on his knees worshipping her with his mouth, coming helplessly with her scent and slick all over him, like it was_ still _all over him—_

_“I was actually just leaving, I’m afraid,” Sean said, careful to enunciate each syllable with his teeth honing themselves sharp again. “Something came up. But enjoy the party, and the holidays.”_

_He left, more abruptly than was polite, but he didn’t care, even with his gloire turned low it would still leave the mortals charmed with him and he had to get_ out, _had to get away from the_ smell, _had to get away from the probably perfectly-lovely Juliette because she was human and not Wesen and that meant he wasn’t allowed to kill her for_ touching his Grimm _._

_He burst outside, taking deep, gulping breaths of the night air that didn’t smell like Nick on his knees for somebody else. It helped clear his head a little, but he didn’t trust himself with a car right now, and his Sangvaliers were close but he couldn’t stand the thought of speaking to them, to anyone, not with his chest full of shrapnel and his blood on fire and everything in him swinging violently between lust and bloodlust and back again._

_He ducked out of sight of the street, woged, and threw himself into the sky as if he could tear the night apart with his wings._

_All Wesen had two kinds of transformation; the Geheimwoge, which was visible only to other Wesen and Grimms and those few humans, like the Dévoué, with the Sight; and the Offenwoge, which allowed even Kehrseite to see a Wesen’s true form. The Blood had a third kind, the Unsichtbarwoge, which rendered them invisible to everyone but other Princes and Grimms, and Sean had enough control left to make sure the Kehrseite couldn’t see him: it was in the Unsichtbarwoge that he flew across the city, to the only place he could think to go._

_When Adalind opened her door, Sean slipped from Unsichtbarwoge to Geheimwoge and caught her gasp of surprise with his mouth, devouring and desperate._

_Catherine would have pushed him away, because all Princes were dangerous, but a desperate one was deadly._

_Adalind kissed him back hungrily, her fingers growing claws as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders to pull him to her; a whirlpool, a black hole he could lose himself in. He picked her up and her legs locked around his waist, the soft cotton of her pyjama bottoms thin as tissue, doing nothing to hide the scent of her arousal, thickening the air between them. Without breaking the kiss, she crooked her fingers at the door, and it slammed shut as Sean pinned her to the nearest wall, his claws slicing through her clothes, her skin turning glittering black under his palms as she woged with pleasure._

_He had her there, barely three feet from the front door, the sleek suit trousers he’d worn for the party only opened enough to free his cock, to get him inside her, his hips slamming into hers again and again and again. She panted and moaned and held him to her greedily, clutching at him, her claws pricking him through his jacket and shirt so the scent of his blood twined with the smell of her; not the copper smell of mortal blood but a scent like amber resin, impossibly unhuman, proof of what he was, and Adalind gasped in lungfuls of it as she came around him, her body slick siren-silk inside, clenching and caressing him as she found her release—_

_But he couldn’t find his._

_The hand he braced against the wall left indentations in the plaster, and she was so wet and warm, and he snarled, driving himself into her, frantic, starving, needing. He saw Nick’s mouth and thrust, panting, savage, thinking of the Grimm’s lips, thinking of him on his knees, and it was so_ much _that he didn’t know how to stand it. Venom flooded his mouth, ambrosia-sweet, and his cock ached and pulsed in time with his fangs, his teeth_ hurting _with the need to bite. Adalind tangled her fingers in his hair, her tongue teasing his mouth, her teeth nipping his lips until they parted, her heels digging into the small of his back beneath his wings, sealing him inside her as she licked the venom from his throbbing fangs—_

 _And gasped, shocked at the sweetness, her body clamping tight and_ rippling _around him and he buried his face against her throat to muffle his roar of vicious need. The scent of her was all wrong, magnolias and mandrake and it didn’t matter, he couldn’t stop, was barely even thrusting now because it hurt too much to withdraw from her, just slammed into her harder and harder, deeper and deeper, the sound of his flesh moving in hers obscene in the quiet and Adalind came again, almost convulsing around him, her body stroking his cock in the grip of her pleasure, almost sucking—_

_So he could almost imagine it was Nick’s decadent mouth—_

_Sean’s release struck him like a slashed throat: without warning, violent and raw, bliss like bleeding. He came with a sound that was snarling thunder, almost crushing Adalind against the wall as he spilled inside her, the relief of it almost agonising. His hips jerked against hers helplessly, and she purred, smug and pleased and pleasured, black eyes half-lidded as she stroked his hair, his face, gentling him through it._

_“Well, that was a nice surprise,” she said when it was over. She squirmed deliberately, and smirked at his hiss of indrawn breath. “Are you going to let me down now?”_

_He stared at her, gold eyes gone bronze-dark. “No,” he said hoarsely, and kissed her, tasting her moans as he started to harden inside her again._

_It was hours before they made it to the bedroom.)_

*

When Nick was twenty-six, he had it all.

*

_(When Nick was twenty-seven, it all came apart.)_

* * *

1 By Kenneth Grahame and Michael Hague; a story about a boy who becomes friends with a very nice, polite dragon, and who has to find a peaceful solution when his village sends for St George to come kill his dragon friend. Described as a ‘tale of compassion and not judging a book—or dragon—by its cover’.

2 _Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone_ was published in 1997, when Nick would have been about 15 (his canonical birthday is June 18th 1982). _So You Want to be a Wizard,_ the first book in Diane Duane’s Young Wizard series, was published in 1983. If you haven’t read that series, I recommend it.

3 Material 58% stronger than diamond (in ideal conditions).

4 An old word for lover, significant other, paramour.


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